


my kingdom for your graces

by venomedveins



Series: of magic & monsters [6]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Blood, F/M, Gore, Graphic descriptions of war, M/M, Magic, Mpreg, Multi, Shapeshifters - Freeform, Vampires, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 09:36:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4559658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venomedveins/pseuds/venomedveins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Plans begin to be revealed as Gerulf moves towards his goal. Both Agron and Nasir suffer in their own way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my kingdom for your graces

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my god! Finally posting in a relatively normal pattern now!
> 
> I really wanted to get this out to you guys before habibinasir and I make our way to Spartacon this weekend! I will be live blogging all the happenings and that can be found on my tumblr: venomedveins.tumblr.com. 
> 
> Just wanted to give you all a heads up, this chapter contains battle scenes and graphic images of violence. I figure you all have watched the show so it's up to Spartacus level, but just in case you get freaked out, I warned you. :D

Blood runs sticky and hot down the side of Agron’s face, getting lost in the leather collar of his armor and his neck. He can’t separate it from the red war paint, dripping from sweat and exertion, already smeared over his cheeks – Nasir’s lasting efforts to immerse in the Alptra culture. Agron can taste the copper tang of it in his mouth, sliding over his tongue, sticking to his teeth which ache from being extended for so long. He loves it and he hates it – the rush of power he gets every time he goes to battle. When the wolf and man collide, Agron is left feeling sore and restless after. 

Spartacus growls to his right, eyes glowing a magnetic yellow as he pulls a jawbone from a vampire’s face. There is a mane of fine yellow hair sprouted along his jaw, nose shortening and darkening until he resembles more lion than man. A chunk of flesh clings to his golden chest piece, but if Spartacus notices, he doesn’t say anything. 

Crixus hasn’t turned back from being a bear, and his thick, black coat is smeared in the gore of the battle. He’s been roaring, a deafening rumble that shakes the ground and drowns out the screams of the vampires before them. They’ve retreated some, but they’re resilient and extremely hard to kill. They slip through the clumsy hands of the Alptra, dodging claws and canines to sink their own fangs in. 

“Push forward! Kill them all!” Agron screams, hacking roughly at a smaller, dark skinned vampire that that reaches with his claws for the prince’s throat. 

A symphony of yells and screams come from the army, men and women surging forward to push the others back. Blood flies in the air and limbs, and Agron follows, hacking with his sword. He flips a burly vampire with a long black beard over his shoulder, hearing the scream cut short as Spartacus finishes the job. 

The ground is still wet from all the rain, and their feel slip in the mud, clambering up the large knoll that separates them from the rest of the battle. Agron digs his heels in, using his claws to grip deep into the soft silt and propel himself forward. It’s not an easy climb, but the moment he gets to the top, Agron finds himself halting, barely keeping himself from knocking Tove over the edge. 

The hill, which they had initially thought was leading up to a plateau, is nothing more than a man-made wall of earth and dirt. It is at least fifty feet high and curves around in a wide arch, surrounding a large city lit by long, glowing torches. Though Agron had led the army into battle, he is one of the last to concur the hill, and the sight before him makes him freeze. 

Bodies litter the streets, the dirt awash with crimson. Old men and women twisted together in agony. A woman sprawled on her back, throat torn. A young boy no more than thirteen, curled against a door, stabbed through. 

“What have we done?” Tove gasps, sword hanging loosely at his side. 

Agron doesn’t respond, can’t respond, as he leads the group forward blindly, looking over the remains of the city. It’s too much, the contorted faces of the helpless, the defenseless against their onslaught. Agron’s feet feel like lead as he tries to march forward, avoiding the sprawling limbs, the carnage. 

The rest of the army lingers along the edges of the city, silent and waiting as their prince walks forward, head bent as he makes his way towards the center of town. There is no joyous celebrating, no song, no free flowing of wine. Instead, the men watch in horror, observe the genocide they created – not a single vampire left. 

Mind numb, Agron continues forward, a sinking feeling taking over him, curling hot and acidic in his stomach. This is not war. This is not even battle. This is slaughter. This is Gerulf and his quest for blood and Agron let him do it, let him use him like his own tool. Agron knows he would have never, never taken it this far. 

Stumbling forward, he would have completely missed the woman if it wasn’t for her scarlet cloak, stained from the blood. She’s young and beautiful, her long black hair matted with red, flattening her curls. Half sprawled on her side, her large, dark eyes stare lifeless as her crimson mouth is forever frozen in a cry. 

Bending down, Agron brushes a strand of her hair from her smooth, tan face. He doesn’t want to linger on who he sees in her, but the ache is there, causing him to stroke her face again. The action causes her corpse to slowly roll on her back, revealing her torso and chest. Agron can’t hold back the noise, the cry slips from his mouth before he can catch it, when he sees what is clutched in her arms. 

It’s small, so fucking tiny, wrapped in a gold and red embroidered blanket. Its tiny fingers curl out from the folds of the fabric, a loose fist with ten tiny fingernails and little knuckles. The mouth isn’t open, and there are no red splotches on its tiny cheeks, instead, its large glassy eyes stare up at Agron, silent and lifeless. 

“Agron,” Spartacus murmurs, reaching forward to lay a hand on the prince’s shoulder, only to have it roughly shoved off. 

“No! Don’t touch me,” Agron’s voice cracks, body shaking as he continues to crouch. Behind him, he can faintly hear Mira’s gasp, her horror palpable in the frozen air.

Agron’s fingers feel numb as they trail along the soft, black curls on top of the baby’s head, over the small eyebrows, before gently lowering the eyelids down. There is no pretending that it is sleeping though. The same is for the mother, who is lovely and freezing to the touch, bare arms encased in jewels and gold. Laid on her back like that, she could almost be resting, but there is too much blood and Agron can’t fucking do anything to fix this. 

Breath coming in short little pants, Agron can feel tears stinging at his eyes, the fury of battle from before leaving him. He feels boneless, weak and melting into the ground. Suddenly, nothing matters. Nothing in this fucking dead land. Not the war. Nothing. He needs his husband, needs to feel the soft press of Nasir’s body in his arms, feel him breathing, rest his hand on the swell of his child and hear its heartbeat. Why had they come here? Why murder a whole tribe of people?

“Agron, it is not him. Your mind and eye play tricks,” Spartacus whispers desperately, but he’s once again cast aside as Agron lets out a growl. 

“And how long will it remain as such? How long have we been at this battle? We have been gone a month already and for what? To slaughter women and children? To take a baby’s life?” Agron shouts, rounding on his advisor. “What is the purpose of all of this? If not to do as my father commands?”

“You are your father’s son,” Spartacus tries again, “You are at his command.”

“I am a puppet!” 

Spartacus dodges the punch, the prince’s footing lost as he slips on the muddy ground. He tries to turn, get another jab in, but is instantly grabbed on either side by Crixus and Tove, pinning him down in place. Agron still yells, growling loudly as Spartacus grabs the sides of Agron’s face, pulling their foreheads together. He has known Agron for so long, since childhood, and yet he has never seen him so distraught, so lost within his sorrow.

“Then let us end this. Let us go home, my king.” Spartacus whispers desperately. “To our people. To Nasir. We have done what requested, we have no purpose here now.”

“I would see my father’s corpse laid bare for the animals to pick his poisoned flesh from bone.” Agron snaps, voice deep and rumbling in his chest, “I would assume my birthright.”

“We will see it done.” Spartacus promises, “I swear it.”

 

\- - - 

 

Dipping the rag once more in the medicine water, Nasir rings it out tightly before pressing it to Kariil’s forehead. The old man groans, wrinkled eyelids fluttering open as his fingers lift from the bedclothes. He’s sheened in sweat, pale bodied flush with fever. 

“Your majesty,” Kariil murmurs in slurred, broken Alptra language. 

“I am here,” Nasir soothes in a gentle voice, brushing a few stray, white hairs from Kariil’s cheeks, “Rest now.” His own speech is still rough, still trying to train his mouth to make the rough growls and clicks of their native tongue. 

“You waste time on an old man.” He grows stronger as he gains consciousness.

“No, I aim to protect and provide for my people. You hold the same value as any other man,” Nasir pats the sides of Kariil’s face. “My place is here with you.”

“Yet your presence causes the deadliest sin. I fear I have committed the highest treason,” Kariil’s grin is faint, teeth barely peeking between his cracked lips. 

“Treason?” Nasir asks, dipping the rag again within the scented water, “What do you speak of? You are a farmer. You provide for us. You are not capable of such.”

“It is not right, a crime punishable by death to love a prince as much as I fear I love you,” Kariil’s hand wraps gently around Nasir’s wrist, pausing his hand, “You must be sent from the gods themselves. You are too kind, too gentle. Nothing like the Alptra swine surrounding you.”

“You are ill,” Nasir laughs lightly, easing him back onto his cot, “and fall to the ramblings of a confused man, sick with fever. I am no god or higher being. I am a simple man.”

“Your beauty is unmatched,” Kariil continues, “Magic and kindness over flowing. You are most loved, highest power. It is no wonder our beast fell for you.”

Nasir does not justify the words with a response, instead, he checks Kariil’s wound, a festering gape on his flank – caused by a rampant bull’s horn. It is healing, scabs a cluster of red and brown gnarled skin. Nasir could press his hand to it and heal it instantly, but under Castus’ watchful eye, he’s powerless. He must just rely on medicines and herbs. 

“When I die, will you be there? To guide me to the celestial caves of our people?” Kariil’s voice is growing faint again, falling back into fevered dreams. 

“I will be here,” Nasir reassures, “to hold your hand and hand you over to Sator, father of this world. And Caelestis will send down a thousand stars to light your way,” Nasir whispers, leaning forward to kiss Kariil’s forehead, “But you are not for the sky lands yet. I will see you well and returned to the arms of your loving wife and children.”

Kariil slowly sinks further into sleep, lulled by the tiny burst of magic Nasir presses through his lips. Nasir only does it when necessary, when he can hide it from Castus or Sedullus. It’s the only thing he has left of home, of his life from before here. Nasir loves it here, loves the people and the magic, loves the relationships that he has formed with Naevia, Melitta, and Tove. Still, and it’s a bitter regret, everything feels so pale, so cold, when Agron isn’t there. 

“You speak fluent Alptra now?” Castus asks, lightly spinning the chain of Nasir’s shackle. After the first day, Gerulf had changed his mind and had the metal welded shut – a bind that Nasir can never break. There are still burns rubbed raw around his wrist from the fire. 

“I do now,” Nasir nods once, “It’s still a little rough, but I am practicing.” He does not trust Castus. How can he when he stares at the prince as if he’s something to be devoured? But sometimes his company is pleasant, when he speaks of his home on the sea, the creatures dwelling there. 

“And what did the sick old man say to you? He looked stricken upon finding you when he woke,” Castus slides from his perch on a nearby cot to follow Nasir as he moves across the room. 

“He begged for me to escort him to the Celestial Caverns when he succumbed to death, the heaven of these lands,” Nasir replies, fiddling with the bottles and bowls of herbs and salves, “and prayed for my husband’s swift return.”

“Ah. Agron.” Castus tone doesn’t give anything away, but there is no warmth there – no loyalty. “You speak often of him, and yet I feel I do not know him. Describe him to me.”

Nasir smiles a little to himself, keeping his eyes down. A warm, blooming feeling always fills him when he thinks about his husband, child inside of him finally calm. It is not fair to the babe, depending on their shared magic, only for half of it to be suddenly removed. 

“He is tall,” Nasir begins, spinning his fingers along a small bottle, “and beautiful. Eyes like a storm on the sea. Sculptured like a heavenly being. A fire in everything he does. He is always so warm. There is no other man comparable to him.”

Castus moves a few steps closer, curling his fingers over Nasir’s biceps from behind. He is one, long line of warmth along Nasir’s back, but what is a sickly comfort is also a heavenly sin, and Nasir finds him leaning back – just slightly – if only to receive some escape from his shattered heart. 

“I know you miss him,” Castus murmurs, holding Nasir gently, “but you should not let your heart become so heavy.”

“You do not know the burden of my loss nor what I continue to carry in his wake,” Nasir replies, allowing himself to be turned in Castus’ arms. 

“I do know the promise of temporary relief.” 

Castus’ eyes gleam as they trail down Nasir, taking in his new clothes. They’re looser, hiding his figure and body, clasped together with golden ties and cords, over lapping thin vest and no longer peeking sheer pants. He is modest, and Castus aches for the memory of the delicate skin on Nasir’s lower back, his navel ring. 

"You are very beautiful," Castus murmurs, gently brushing a strand of Nasir's hair back over his shoulder, letting his fingers linger on the soft skin there. “Worthy of any prince. Yet I wonder if he deserves such love.”

"You flatter, but I-" Nasir tries to counter, feeling the blush spread across his cheeks. 

"Why do you deny yourself what you desire?" Castus asks, voice still soft and breath cool on Nasir's face. "You punish yourself, hurt yourself, for what purpose? Would it not feel better to give in? To feel the pleasure you know you deserve. You are all I think of, all I ache for."

"Castus," Nasir begins, feeling a sharp pain fleet across his navel - radiation of magic. It only grows as Castus steps forward, and Nasir resists the urge to sooth a hand down the baby - willing it to calm down. The babe does not like people touching Nasir.

“I do not wish to claim your heart.” Castus’ hands are a burning line on Nasir’s neck, branding him. “I only wish to relieve you of the burden of denying yourself. Let me ease your pain while he is away.”

“He is my husband, my only,” Nasir replies, raising his eyes slowly. The temptation is there, to have a break from the nagging pain, the fear for the baby, everything. But Nasir does not want this man, not really. Not when the man he truly desires stands so far above all the rest. 

"Let me give you what you want," Castus goes in then, cups Nasir's jaw and tilts his head up. He leans in and Nasir’s eyes dart to his mouth, stare at the fullness of his lips. And it would be so easy to give in, to let Castus distract him, but Agron was and is his first kiss, his first true brush of feeling. Sometimes at night, Nasir will press his fingers to his lips and still feel the phantom sparks of that first one – that first breath that Agron had filled Nasir with.

It happens in an instant - just a flash of Nasir's face contorted with long, dripping fangs and glowing emerald eyes, before his hand slams forward - hitting Castus squarely in the chest. It topples the pirate back, nearly knocking him off his feet before he regains some of his balance. The charming, suave expression on his face is replaced by one of horror. 

"Do not think yourself so worthy as to touch me. I am a prince's consort, not your common whore!" Nasir growls, features sinking back after the words leave him. 

Castus stares at the prince, lovely and dangerous, and his stomach twists. How can he continue to reject him so coldly? Castus has broken rules for him, laws, to allow him to have his little meetings with Pietros. To pretend that Nasir isn’t being sold around, bided on who can claim him first. Gerulf does not care. 

"You are a consort in chains," Castus spits viciously, "being sold to the highest bidder. Do not think your husband can protect you now."

Nasir recoils from the words, trying to turn away and flee, but there is only so far he can go with the shackle on his wrist. He curses it, silently hating everything. It’s true, Castus’ words, but Nasir has never seen them so plainly. There isn’t even guarantee that when Agron returns, things will change. 

“Nasir, I’m sorry.” Castus moves forward, allowing the chain to slacken in his hand. “I spoke out of line. I only meant to comfort you.”

“How can you comfort me? What can you possibly say?” Nasir turns bitterly, spitting venom, “Would letting you fuck me bring Agron back? He could be dead and we would have no way of knowing. Gerulf has taken everything and he’s still taking. What else do I have to give?”

“He may still live. And kings do what they will, but they do not always last.” Castus tries to soothe, but Nasir is hinging on hysterical, fist clenched tightly at his sides. 

“I came here. I was sold to Gerulf for my people’s safe passage, married away to a man that I didn’t know. And I love Agron, I do, but it was so hard at first. There was too much fear and I could not let him in.” Nasir speaks between pants, nearly yelling. “And we were happy. We were finally happy. And then the vampires came and Gerulf pushes him into war and he didn’t want to fucking go. I didn’t want to. But he did.”

“Nasir-“ Castus outreaches his hand to comfort, but Nasir steps backwards. 

“Gerulf stripped me of my title. He sent my best friend, my brother from my side, and placed me into the hands of strangers. You all fight over me like I’m to be sold again and I-“ Nasir takes a deep breath, having to bite his bottom lip to keep the words from spilling out. 

“You what?” Castus asks slowly, finding the courage to shuffle a few inches closer, “You what Nasir? You can trust me.”

“I am carrying his child.”

Nasir smooths his hand slowly down his stomach, pressing his hand along the curve to show Castus how big he is now. He is starting to fill out more, chest sore every day while his hips and back ache. And Nasir spends the nights wrapped in Agron’s cloak, letting the fur caress his skin, but nothing soothes the baby. It wants its father just as much as Nasir does, and he’s thought so many times of how to end the pain, but he can’t. Not till he knows for sure. 

“Does anyone know?” Castus lets his fingers hover above Nasir’s stomach, staring down at the curve of it. The clothes make sense. The moodiness. The crying and screaming at the slightest provocation. 

“Duro and Pietros, a few others,” Nasir replies, “and of course, Agron himself.”

“And he left you here like this?” Castus comments, tinged with bitterness. 

“He had no choice.” Nasir’s voice is small and weak. The baby sends out a small wave of magic, like a gentle caress, and Nasir tries not to dwell on it. He’s supposed to be caring for the baby, not the other way around. 

“Oh Nasir.” Castus, newly enlightened, reaches out to gently press his palm to the side of Nasir’s stomach, rubbing there gently. He means it innocently, pressing his lips to the corner of Nasir’s mouth – a comfort and nothing more. 

It’s the gentlest of caresses, a mere brushing, but it sends a jolt of pain up Nasir’s spine, knees buckling. The flashes behind his eyes – a snarling wolf with dripping teeth and glowing eyes, the woods at night, someone screaming, and the firelight illuminating a couple joined together on a blanket before it. Nasir can see the gleaming sweat on Agron’s shoulders, his own hair stuck to his face as he grinds in Agron’s lap. Then the growling is back and it’s so loud, a trembling that forces Nasir’s eyes to roll, distantly hearing his name. 

“Please don’t-“ Nasir chokes out, stumbling back a few steps. The rush of magic leaves him weak, knees trembling as he sinks into a vacant cot, “I can’t handle people touching me.”

“I’m sorry.”

Castus words are distant, a murmur as he takes in the panting royal. Nasir’s forehead is sweaty, one hand rubbing tight circles on his stomach while the other presses to his forehead. And Castus wants to say he loves him, wants to claim him, obtain him anyway he can, but staring at him like this – seeing the devotion – Castus does not think Nasir will ever be free of Agron. 

\- - - 

 

Duro sits stoic and somber, cup of untouched wine in his hand. Around the room are the nobility, the lords and ladies left behind from the war. Duro has never sat in this room before. He is usually not required as Agron attends the mundane, tireless meetings when they fight over land and taxes and shit. 

“I ask only for a raise from last year,” Aldabern repeats for the fiftieth time, shaking his silver hair back from his shoulders, “The taxes can be applied to more armor, better weapons.”

“I have heard enough of this.” Gerulf sighs, waving his hand, “Let us break for meal and return later with fuller stomachs and clearer minds.”

The nobility all agree, bowing and shuffling their feet, unable to decline the command and begin to rise. They shuffle out in thick strands, heavily ridden with cloth and jewels, resembling more peacock than the beasts they actually are. Duro would laugh at them, make some under-breath comment to Agron, but his brother is not here and Duro doesn’t have the energy anymore. 

This month has been exhausting, between catering to Gerulf’s every command and trying to hold back his own emotions, Duro feels drained. He misses Auctus, the soft press of his body along Duro’s side, his fingers combing through Duro’s wild curls. His life seemed so much easier, simpler when he was the second in command, the shadow to the sun. 

“Duro, wait a moment, my son.” Gerulf stands, moving along the shadowed edges of the circle before taking the chair directly next to his youngest son. 

“Yes father,” Duro tries to hold back the sickly twist of his stomach as he draws near. 

“For many years, you have stood behind and forgotten in the wake of your brother. Agron is my heir, my first born, and if he were to survive – he would be king when I fall to the sky caverns. Still, you are my son, and right now, the head of the family. I need to know I can trust you, above all else.” Gerulf begins, leveling him with a stern look. 

Duro thinks about Agron, thinks about his training – their training. How to lie. How to be stoic against their father. He dwells on that, tries to pull the blank, stone face that Agron has perfected after years. He doesn’t want to think about Agron lying dead in a field somewhere while the ones who love him wait back at home. 

“Of course you can trust me,” Duro nods, “anything for you father.”

How easy the lies come when Duro is protecting everyone. 

“There may come a time when I need you to lead our people. To assume the role that has been given to your brother, his birthright. Can you handle such responsibility?” Gerulf’s expression does not soften as he sizes Duro up, eyes narrowed. 

“Yes,” Duro nods once, clamping his fist to his chest roughly. 

“Good.” Gerulf turns away, moving to stand, and Duro seizes his chance. 

“Father I would prove my loyalty to you,” he rushes the words, half standing as well, “I know of your displeasure in Agron’s husband. I would act as a liaison between the two of you.”

“You wish to persuade me to form an allegiance with him? After everything he’s done?” Gerulf hisses, suddenly turning from man to predator. 

“No, my king, no.” Duro shakes his head, ignoring the fact that Nasir’s sins pale in the greater shadow of Gerulf’s own. Nasir’s only fault is possibly loving Agron a little too much. 

“I would stand as a spy for you. I do not trust the snake, but he does think I favor him,” Duro continues, ignoring once more how easy it is now to lie to his father. He does not regret this plan. “You have done wisely to place him under protection, but I fear that he will not reveal his plan to an outsider nor your personal guard. If I could spend alone time with him, perhaps even a walk through the woods a day, then I could report back.”

“You want to expose him for the magician and liar that he is?” Gerulf sounds surprisingly intrigued and perhaps even proud. 

“Nasir considers me his family, his brother. Let me get you the information you need. I want to protect Agron and this kingdom, and if that means betraying one pathetic minx, then I will.” Duro confirms, bowing his head in respect. 

He catches the shimmer of gold out of his peripheral. Pietros standing in the shadows, holding a large tray of fruit. His expression is flawless, a stone wall that Duro aims for on a daily basis. There is a trembling to his hands though, and an apple falls from the top of the stack, rolling to land near the edge of the tent. 

“I trust you with this,” Gerulf claps Duro on the shoulder, “and I would task you with checking him for magic. My sources tell me that there will be signs on his skin, left over gold or shimmering. You will need to check him.”

“I will,” Duro takes his orders well. 

“All of him.” Gerulf adds, leveling Duro with a knowing stare. 

“You-,” Duro fucking curses his hesitation, “You want me to check all of him?” 

“Hold him down and strip him if you have to. He must be thoroughly checked. He does not belong to himself, not since he threatened our people by catching the tent on fire.” Gerulf explains, turning away when Duro swallows thickly. 

“Yes, your majesty.” Duro turns to leave after bowing again, ignoring Pietros hovering by the opening of the tent, tray discarded on a random table. 

“Oh and Duro?” Gerulf calls, waiting until Duro lingers in the doorway, cringing into the night air, “Take what you want.”

“Father?” Duro cannot help turning, eyes widening under his father’s words. 

“Your brother and you have shared everything since the day you were born. Pets do not belong just to one master. He is not yet pregnant nor has worth.” 

Gerulf shrugs once before dismissing him with a wave of his hand. 

Duro’s heart pounds in his ears as he moves from the tent, blindly making his way towards his own chambers. If he can pull this off, it will bear Nasir some time. Duro will suffer the punishment, but he cannot stand idle anymore. Duro has barely seen Nasir in the past weeks, always clinging to shadows, being dragged from healing tent to his own. He wears dark colors in the blazing heat and is silent in the night. There is no more tears left to be shed. No more moans to give. Everything is silent. 

Every day they send a pigeon out into the sky and they return at night, messages still attached. The first week, there had been hope. The birds would go to their master – would go to Barca, but they never do. Nasir had tried reaching Agron in his dreams, had screamed in his head until he fell asleep with exhaustion, and had begged every form of magic for some sign. Yet everything is quiet, still. 

Duro barely makes it inside of his tent before there is a blade pressed tightly to his throat, a hand curled in his hair, tilting his head back. He acts on impulse, reaching back and wrapping an arm around his attacker, flipping him easily over his shoulder and down onto the floor. Duro fumbles for his sword, managing to pull it out just as the man moves, flipping back punch Duro hard in the mouth. 

Blood smears down his chin, but it doesn’t deter the prince. Instead, he surges forward, claws extended as he wraps his head roughly around the man’s esophagus, slamming him into one of the beams supporting the canvas ceiling. It swings the lamp above them, casting light across the attacker’s snarling face. 

“Pietros? What shit is this?” Duro barks, dodging Pietros’ fist again, catching his wrist and holding it roughly above his head against the wood. 

“You fucking asshole. You deceptive little snitch! We trusted you. We all trusted you. And you would betray him like this? Betray Agron? For what? The fucking crown?” Pietros kicks Duro hard on the shin, forcing the prince to stagger. 

It opens up enough room for Pietros to slip out, slamming his elbow hard into Duro’s side. He isn’t as quick as he should be though, as Duro manages to wrap an arm across his chest, rushing forward. They topple together on the bed, Duro’s hands turning to vices on Pietros’ as he pins him down, keeps him there with his hips. 

“What are you talking about?” Duro pants, teeth still painted in blood. 

“Selling yourself into Gerulf’s fucking service. You call us liars, thieves, and yet you have never been true in your whole life,” Pietros spits in Duro’s face, glaring as the saliva drips along Duro’s stubbled cheek.

“Are you fucking insane?” Duro hisses, maneuvering Pietros’ wrists into one hand before using his other to grip Pietros’ jaw, holding him immobile. “I lied to him so I could see Nasir. None of us have had contact with him. I’m fucking worried about him and the only way any of us were going to get close was if I played both sides.”

Pietros shakes his head, trying to kick out, wiggle his way free, but Duro is strong in places that Pietros is not. He is rock solid and Pietros doesn’t want to dwell on that, and he won’t because he’s furious, but there is something very hypnotic about the swirls of amber that make up Duro’s eyes. 

“You’re a fucking liar. You’re just saying that to save yourself.” Pietros snarls, shaking his head as much as he can in Duro’s grip. 

“Agron made me promise if he dies that I have to marry Nasir. That I have to tell the baby that it’s mine. To pretend to be the father when you know that baby is going to look just like them.” Duro’s grip flexes on Pietros’ jaw, denting his cheeks. 

“You would do it. Why not? You covet your brother.” Pietros tries to wiggle away again, but can’t manage to get the upper hand. 

“Agron told me how to love Nasir, how to fucking make love to him. Do you have any fucking idea how much it killed him to say that to me? For me to fucking hear it? To agree?” Duro replies sharply, hissing the words against Pietros’ mouth. “I have done everything I can to fucking protect him. Why would I give him up to Gerulf now?”

Pietros doesn’t say anything for a moment, dark eyes searching Duro’s for a hint of a lie. He can’t find it though, finds instead the weariness of a soul not prepared for the weight which it has been given. And Duro is right. They have not seen Nasir. They have not even caught a glimpse. Every day it kills them both slowly. No one knows what has happened to him, hidden away by guards and fabric.

“I’m not going to apologize to you.” 

Pietros blinks slowly up at Duro, defiant and shining. Duro tracks the movement of his eyes, the brush of his eyelashes over his cheeks. Pietros’ mouth looks bruised, fuller from the way Duro is holding him, and before he can stop himself, he leans down to capture it. Pietros makes a noise of protest before relenting, leaning his body up and arching until he’s one long line against Duro’s front. 

“Wait.” He gasps, allowing Duro to turn his face to the side, biting kisses into the tan skin of his neck. 

“Why? Why limit ourselves anymore? We all want each other. There is no reason to say no,” Duro murmurs, lapping wetly along Pietros’ pulse point. 

“You’re upset Duro,” Pietros pants, legs falling open around the prince’s hips, “We are acting impulsively. Think about Auctus and Barca. We made promises.”

Duro doesn’t reply, thrusting his hips against Pietros’. It drags their cock together, delicious friction that causes both of them to gasp, sharing panted breath between their mouths. Pietros’ is stained in Duro’s blood, and he finds himself lapping at his lips for more, nails turning sharp on his back. 

“Do you think they have not fallen into each other’s arms during battle?” Duro gasps, fingers working expertly on the front of Pietros’ tunic, stripping his torso easily. 

“They would not betray our hearts like that,” Pietros suddenly goes limp, laying back against the pillows, fingers gently stroking down Duro’s cheek. “We cannot do the same.”

“We constrain ourselves to this, but why? Why do we have to choose sides, partners? When we all would take each other if possible?” Duro asks, nuzzling gently into Pietros’ hand. 

“It is not our decision to make alone.” Pietros leans up, gently pressing his lips to Duro’s, “We must wait for them to return and then broach subject.”

Duro sighs, lowering his head down to Pietros’ chest, nuzzling against the warm, tan skin. He’s surprised how warm Pietros is considering the harsh shift in weather they have been having. It seems a cold front has made its way onto their lands, cold winds and harsh rain. Duro has his suspicions, knows what Nasir can do when he’s emotional. Still, it has caused a sort of gray haze over the land. 

“We all are hurting, my prince,” Pietros whispers, kissing Duro’s temples, his fingers still curled in his curls. “Let us find peace with each other in other ways.”

“I’m just so tired.”

Duro nods, curling up around Pietros’, laying his head on Pietros’ chest. He feels so drained, so useless really, and he can’t even muster up an apology. In a little while, he will pull himself from this bed and go see Nasir, lie and pretend it doesn’t bother him when he has to see parts of Nasir that aren’t for him – parts that still resonate with Agron’s scent. For now, it’s better not hide here, silent and waiting. 

\- - - 

Barca walks slowly along the perimeter of the encampment, fingers drumming absent mindedly on the hilt of his sword. The sun is beginning to rise in the east, casting long shadows on the canvas coverings, fires dying low. He will retire soon, switch shifts, but for now, Barca continues moving, shuffling slightly. 

His mind wanders, thinking of a long, tan back, glistening sweat along sharp collarbones, and the laughing mouth of Pietros, delighted when the birds land on his fingertips. The pigeons had taken to him, cooing at the younger boy and nuzzling their heads against his palm. Barca had been there too, amazed at the easy grace in which the dancer had moved, producing grain with his magic in his hands to feed the small bird. 

“You gaze at the sun as if you will soon take up arms against it,” Auctus approaches from behind, leisurely resting his hands on his hips. 

“Thoughts are lost in previous moments,” Barca murmurs, turning to nod at the other man, “I would see myself to bed. Are you here to take charge?”

“Yes,” Auctus bows his head slightly, “but I would hear thoughts if mind grows heavy.”

“They are not for you,” Barca replies, smiling slightly, “But heart warms to find us once again at even terms.”

“Heart is filled with others, and yet you still hold place within it.” Auctus pats Barca on the back, “Should we turn bitter to one another when we have found joy separated?”

“Perhaps we are wiser than most men,” Barca kisses Auctus’ rough cheek, “and have ones of our own that would see us happy.”

“I draw breath in hope we will soon return to them.”

“To both.” Barca nods, meaning clear.

Auctus nods, turning to gaze out at the rising morning. The sun is warming the land, but it cannot erase the blood and gore of the night previous. The men sit around the dying fires with heavy hearts, blood still encrusted on chest plates and hands. It is hard to rise above it when the slaughter is so fresh. 

“He sends you message?” Auctus asks, raising head to where a small, dark shadow plays along the sunlight. 

“Who?” Barca turns, to glance at Auctus before returning his gaze to the horizon. 

“Your boy, Pietros, he sends the birds?” Auctus points to the sky where the shadows have gotten larger, flapping now to be seen. 

Barca does not reply, waiting until the pigeon reaches them. It is weary, gratefully falling into Barca’s palm with a soft coo, nuzzling its head against the soft pad of Barca’s thumb. Auctus helps remove the scroll tied to the leg, unrolling it slowly before turning confused eyes to his former lover. 

“What does it say?” Being careful of the sleeping bird, Barca crowds against Auctus’ side. 

“It is from Pietros, but-“ Auctus holds the paper delicately, “It says nothing.”

“A king’s purpose forged in gold?” Barca reads the first line out loud slowly, narrowing his eyes as he continues, “see it ignite with passionate flame?”

“We should take this to Agron. Perhaps he knows of this purpose? He is most familiar with these new people.” Auctus passes the paper to Barca, “Does it hold magic?”

“I will take it to the king,” Barca moves away, heading back towards the tents. 

“He is a prince,” Auctus teases, taking the station that Barca had just left. 

“For now.” 

Barca’s response is lost in the wind. 

 

\- - - 

 

Nasir spinning in the setting sunlight, a long shadow and shimmer of gold. There is a breeze and it whips his hair across his face, clings to his grinning mouth, fingertips straining across the wide expanse of his stomach. Bare foot and perfect, and Agron is trying to get to him, trying to get up the hill before the darkness comes. 

_He’s coming. He’s coming. He’s coming._

A scream, a black figure scurrying across the ground and something wrapped around Nasir’s neck, gripping and twisting. And Agron’s feet slip on the soft earth, nails digging in but Nasir’s knees hit the ground and he reaches out one hand – too far away for Agron to touch. Too far to get to. 

_He’s coming. He’s coming. He’s coming._

Voices echo in a mantra over and over in Agron’s head, a fevered whisper that nags at Agron’s temples, his brain thrumming with the words. It’s a ceaseless cry, pain etching in the darkest points of Agron’s mind. There is no escape. No silence. No respite. An image of blood pouring from Nasir’s lips, staining his front, light fading from his eyes. 

He wakes with a scream, thrashing hard against the hands that try to hold him down, claws extended and mouth a cavern of sharp bladed teeth. He catches Crixus in the chest, Spartacus nearly losing an eye, before the men are able to wrestle Agron back down. A cool cloth is pressed to his forehead and Mira perches above him, face scrunched in worry. 

“You suffer loss of mind,” Mira soothes, stroking Agron’s cheek gently, “and yet return to the light.”

“I would fall back to slumber, yet nightmares fill it.” Agron coughs, turning head to the side. Mira gently wipes the tears from his cheek, pretending she does not notice them. 

“You scream for your husband,” Crixus replies gruffly, “as if ghost lingered in very room. We fear you were going to the afterlife.”

“Nasir yet lives,” Mira shakes her head, “and is no ghost.”

“That we know of.” Crixus’ reply is only hear by Mira, who gives him sharp look. 

“We must return soon, for the slaughter of my father and the protection of our people.” Agron sits up slowly, allowing Mira to climb off of him and sit to the side. 

“All things take time, your majesty, and careful planning. Both things you lack patience for,” Crixus snarks, crossing his arms. “Was it not you who rushed to do your father’s bidding?”

“You speak out of turn.” Agron growls back, “On dangerous matters you know nothing of.”

“And yet I stand here, by your side,” Crixus replies, “once more at the mercy of a king.”

“One that will soon be dead.” Agron takes a long pull of his wine, growl hidden behind the wood.

Spartacus and Mira stand grim on either side of the room, sharing a look. If Agron aims to do this, assume the throne this way, then he is going to need every ally he has. It will be a brutal fight, a deadly one that pits half their people against each other. It is not something they should go in blindly to, or remove friends they already have. 

The silence is suddenly interrupted by the pounding of feet outside, before the tent door is thrown open and Auctus clambers inside.

“Agron! My king! I bear message from home.”

Spartacus takes it first, reads it over, before handing it to Agron with a grim look. The text is confusing, a riddle probably aimed to hide whatever the content is, but if it has a meaning – the head general can’t make sense of it. 

“With flame?” Agron whispers to himself, stroking his fingers over the harsh lettering on the page. It is not Nasir’s handwriting, it’s too sharp, too thick.

“What does it mean?” Spartacus peers over Agron’s shoulder, still mouthing the words. 

“See it ignite with flame?” Mira asks, crowding next to Spartacus, “Put it in the fire?”

“It’s paper,” Spartacus replies, shaking his head. 

“No.” Agron murmurs, pressing his palm roughly to the page. 

He lets his mind think back, every flick of flame that has ghosted over Nasir’s skin – slipped onto Agron’s own. That glowing look in Nasir’s eyes when he’s close and the fire growing. That time on the floor when they had been ensnared, passion so potent that Agron can still taste the sulfur on the back of his tongue, the sharp bitter smear of Nasir’s body and his mouth panting wet and bruised against Agron’s own. 

“What shit is this?”

Crixus’ words are muted by the gleaming ribbon of golden text suddenly filling the page where black ink once stood. It is a trick, magic infused by each of them, and Agron should be surprised but everything about Nasir is unexpected. It’s not like they have discovered everything they can do together, let alone everything that is possible apart.

“Fuck,” Mira hisses, leaning with her chin on Agron’s shoulder to make sure she has read the note clearly. 

“Gerulf has moved against Nasir then,” Spartacus says slowly, “Stripping him of title and position.”

“Enslaving him to his own tent? Forcing him to perform for his men every night? What shit is this?” Mira turns her head to look at Agron, and instantly recoils, pressing against her fiancé instead. 

Agron’s teeth have grown long again, eyes glaring out of his head in unnatural light. The hand that holds the paper trembles as he tries to keep his claws back, but it’s a failing attempt. He does not trust himself anymore. Cannot build the walls to hide behind, the stone face, not anymore. Not when it comes to Nasir. He wants to be there, to rip the throat from Gerulf, to present his head on a plate to Nasir. 

“I will fucking kill him.” Agron growls, teeth bared and sharp. 

“It would be unwise to make such a murder,” Tove adjusts his wristband in the corner, seeming to have just appeared, “when it places you in more harm’s way.”

“What do you speak of?” Agron stands slowly, accepting the cup of wine from Mira with a small nod of gratitude. 

“You hold no true claim to the throne,” Tove replies, “Gerulf is the youngest son. My father would fall to the throne next. Then Saxa, then myself. Do you think others would let you live if you killed your father in this way?”

“Your father holds no desire for the throne. He never has,” Spartacus shakes his head, “Why would he claim it now?”

“Once threat is removed, Dietrich has no barrier to the throne except for you and your husband.” Crixus supplies, “He has the birth right. Who is to say the man will not claim it? And slaughter you and yours.”

“So what would you suggest? Allowing myself to stay under my father’s rule? Endanger the life of my husband and unborn child every day?” Agron shakes his head, spitting viciously. “I want his fucking head!”

“There may be another way,” Mira turns her attention to the pacing prince, “Your husband sent me on mission to collect the venom from the vampires. Nasir spoke of its powers of healing, if used in small amounts, but under specific dosage – it can put a man to a sleep of the body but aware of the mind.”

“You would put him to sleep?” Crixus laughs throatily, “As if sleeping babe?”

“It will still his tongue. With illness falling upon noble king, loyal prince must rise to occasion – to what is his duty,” Mira smiles slowly, “and secure position when babe is brought into this world.” 

Agron’s furrowed look slowly turns to a smirk, clapping Mira on the shoulder. “You speak with the tongue of a snake and yet plot gives cause for celebration.”

“We shall return to our homeland, greet our wives and children, our lovers. And see Gerulf’s terror reign put to an everlasting slumber.” Spartacus commands, raising his fist, “and strike down anyone who stands within our path.”

“The plan is set. We leave at midday. Ready the soldiers.” Agron drains his cup of wine, reaching next for his chest plate. “I would see us back by next night.”

 

\- - -

 

Gaius Claudius Glaber does not consider himself a patient man. When he wants something, truly wants something, he usually wins it or earns it through force or clever finagling. It has been twenty years since Glaber made the deal with Gerulf, and yet still he has not had his payoff – what he needs.

“We will be able to deliver soon. Did I not send my son to kill your enemies as a sign of good faith?” Gerulf sighs, leaning forward in his throne. “Agron has slaughtered the Blutsauger. Not a single one remains – as told by my informants.”

“And yet,” Glaber begins, “my hands are empty.”

“Pregnancies take time. With husband from side, we must find another suitable match,” Gerulf shakes his head, “You will soon have baby in hand. Trade has already been agreed upon.”

“A child for the price of immortality,” Ilithyia pulls herself from the shadows, long cloak of violet wrapped tightly around her, “You set your sights high, King Wolf.”

“I make even trade. Power for power,” Gerulf replies, noticing Sedullus pacing along the darkness of the tent, “Does your son not wish for such?”

Ilithyia’s light eyes seem to shimmer in the candle light as she stands taller, fangs glinting, “Caesar only asks for the best – the prophesized child.”

“Ah yes, the prophecy,” Gerulf takes a knowing pull of his drink, “Remind me what it says?”

“A child of the night and a child of the earth will join and from their union will burst the king wolf whose jaws will swallow the darkness. From the fire and gold, from vines and glory, it will ensure the earth into brighter days, awash the horror – a king above all kings.” Ilithyia replies slowly, remembering the words from so long ago. 

“Nasir will fall soon with child and you will have your payment,” Gerulf stands, “and your son will have his prize.” 

Gerulf does not turn back as he moves from the tent, smirk in place. Plan is almost to completion now. 

 

\- - - 

 

“See yourself to meal and bed. I am to take place,” Duro waves a hand at Castus, who lingers just outside of the linen covering the baths, chain in hand. 

“Has the king commanded such?” Castus looks speculatively at the prince, adorned in his sage color tunic, crown a ring of glowing gold within his curls. 

“He has.” Duro does not wait to hear Castus’ response, instead pulls the chain from his hand and waves his hand in the pirate’s face, easily dismissing him

“You come to your brother’s chambers and make demands almost as if you assume his right,” Nasir’s voice sounds from between the fabric hangings, water sloshing, “I wonder what else you will demand.” . 

“Nasir, I come-“ Duro begins, only to be cut off as the curtain opens. 

Nasir stands there in long, scarlet robe, sleeves flowing and bell shaped. It clings to his wet body, his chest and stomach, as he steps out of the tub, wet thighs peeking out as he moves. Duro can’t help his eye being drawn to such, the plump softness of Nasir’s legs only highlighted the further along in his pregnancy he gets. He’s caught though, Nasir raising an eyebrow, and Duro instantly regrets it and snapping his gaze up to Nasir’s face with a guilty expression. 

“I know why you come,” Nasir holds the front of his robe closed over his hips, shielding his nudity, “and yet I am surprised it came to this.”

“You mistake intent-“ Duro shakes his head, having to force himself not to back up as Nasir approaches him. He has a right to be suspicious. Duro has been forced to ignore Nasir for weeks, to hide away from him and his duty. 

“How much did you pay for me?” Nasir asks bluntly, brow raised as he settles the cloth around him. 

“What?” Duro’s voice is all breath, eyes widening. 

“How much?” Nasir moves around Duro slowly, fingers trailing along his collarbones. He has a dark look in his eyes that Duro does not recognize. It feels charged, dangerous. “You didn’t trick yourself into thinking that this would bring you closer, did you? Brothers that fuck the same bitch don’t usually fall into bed together.”

“I’m not here to fuck you,” Duro barks, “I’m here to make sure you’re alright.”

“I danced for a crowd of drunk, sweaty men that tried to put their hands all over me. My body betrays me at every move. My husband is fucking absent still without note. And my child grows tirelessly strong inside of me, demanding its father and something-“ Nasir trails off, fingers pressed to his lips, “something I crave that I cannot recall what it is.”

“You are exhausted,” Duro tries to sooth, affronted as Nasir draws closer to him, breathing deeply into Duro’s arm for a moment. 

“That! What is that smell?” Nasir’s nails bite into Duro’s shoulders as he trails his nose down Duro’s breastplate, falling to his knees. The position is not lost on Duro who draws his hips back, staring up at the roof of the tent.

“Smell? I have been at the hunt all day, lost in the woods, you smell blood and trees.” Duro eases Nasir back, pointedly ignoring the open way his robe now falls, exposing his chest and swelling stomach. “You lose sense having been cooped up in tent so long. Let us take walk through woods, get you fresh air.”

Nasir does not make a committal noise, instead, trails his tongue slowly over the thick leather strap across Duro’s belt, moaning slightly. In his panic, Duro grips the back of Nasir’s hair to pull him away – then caught by the position he’s placed himself in, stumbles back and away. If Nasir notices, he does not reply, instead left kneeling in place licking his lips slowly. 

“Come, little brother, let us seek reasoning of mind within woods.” Duro’s voice breaks as he nods at Nasir, trying to reason. 

“Of course.”

Blinking slowly, it’s as if Nasir has returned and the blood thirsty being from before is gone. He slips behind the curtains surrounding Agron’s and his bed, changing before rejoining his brother-in-law shortly, handing over the length of chain that connects to his wrist. Duro takes it begrudgingly, sharing an apologetic look with the smaller man before marching them forward. 

They walk slowly, not rushing their way through the thick woods but strolling really. The sun is beginning to set, casting hues of yellow, bronze, and orange through the green. It’s nice here, calm, with the birds cooing softly and deer walking silently through the brush. 

“I apologize for my previous words. I do not feel myself lately,” Nasir sighs deeply, rubbing his forehead, “I fear I am losing my mind.”

“Things have not been easy on you. Is it your magic or something else?” Duro asks, turning to watch him out of the corner of his eye. 

“It’s my magic. It’s my body.” Nasir faintly brushes a hand down his stomach, hidden behind the folds of his tunic. “Everything is changing and I don’t have any control over it. Nothing is mine anymore. And- Never mind.”

“And what?” Duro gently pries, not wanting to offend. 

“And I’m all alone,” Nasir tries not to whimper, “I’m so fucking lonely. I hate him for leaving me. For expecting me to handle this all by myself.”

“Nasir.” Wrapping his arm around Nasir’s shoulders, Duro kisses the top of his head, moving them forward and further from the opposing town. “He will return.”

“It’s not just about Agron. It’s about everything. I’m sore, Duro, everywhere. My body is growing, changing. I’m fucking emotional, over the simplest thing. I can’t do anything to help it,” Nasir leans heavily against Duro’s side, hiding his face in his shoulder, “I hate it. I hate everything. How can I hate what isn’t even born yet?”

“You don’t hate the baby,” Duro sighs, stroking his fingers through Nasir’s long hair, “and you don’t hate Agron. You’re just upset.”

“I’m always upset,” Nasir mutters, sniffing against Duro’s chest, “I don’t wanna be fat anymore. I want to use my magic. I want to wear my clothes instead of wrapping myself up like an old lady. It’s pathetic.”

“All will be set right soon. I promise,” Duro twirls a strand of Nasir’s hair around his finger, “What can I do now to alleviate some of the pain?”

“I don’t know,” Nasir pulls back to wipe at his cheeks, shaking his head, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Duro takes a deep breath before turning to hug Nasir tightly against his chest, pretending for Nasir’s pride that he doesn’t hear the sniffling, “You’ve been so strong. It’s only for a little while longer.”

“I need-“ Nasir murmurs, pulling back slowly. His eyes are half lidded, mouth wet and flushed. Duro wants to stroke his face, take him back to his tent and let Nasir rest – actually sleep without crying himself there or waking numerous times to screaming for his husband.

“That smell.” Voice dipping, Nasir’s eyes fall shut as he tilts his head back. “What is that?”

“What smell?” Duro whips his head around as if the cause of the scent can be found lingering along the path. There is nothing, and Duro is brought back to his brother-in-law by the growl slowly growing in his throat. 

“I need it.” 

Nasir’s teeth are longer, sharp little fangs peeking out under a curled lip. His face seems more narrow, a litter of tiny, golden scales growing down the curve of his brow and onto his nose. He lets out a loud hiss, back arching sharply, before he suddenly yanks out of Duro’s hand, sprinting into the deeper parts of the woods. 

Duro takes after him, panting hard as he tries to keep up. Nasir is a blur ahead of him, disappearing behind a clump of bushes and ferns. Duro skids on the soft earth, nearly falling to the ground as he tries to keep his balance. It loses him some ground, and he falls behind, using his wolf sense of hearing to finally crash through the underbrush. 

The scene is violent. A wild boar lays prone on its side, giving a dying whine as its throat is yanked free. Crimson splatters up Nasir’s arms, dripping hot and wet down his chin as Nasir sinks his teeth into the raw flesh. The squelch of it fills the air, the raw copper and heaving muscles. Nasir crouches over it, pulling off more muscle to devour, tugging it free with his teeth before gobbling it down. 

Duro recoils from the sight, nearly gagging as Nasir messily licks his fingers, blood staining his lips. He looks nothing like the small, vulnerable man from before. Instead, he looks like some obtuse mixture of a snake and wolf, eyes slitted and glowing. 

“Nasir,” Duro asks tentatively, staying back. He’ll never admit that his fingers linger on the hilt of his sword. 

“This,” Nasir moans, licking a droplet up his wrist, sucking the source off his thumb, “is divine.”

“You don’t,” Duro awkwardly scratches the side of his nose, resisting the urge to spin his nose ring, “You don’t eat meat.”

“What?” Dazed, Nasir’s face morphs back into his own, dark eyes swimming up to glance at Duro. 

“You don’t eat meat. You have never eaten meat,” Duro tries again, pointing over to the savagely pulled apart boar. 

“I don’t?” Nasir asks faintly, looking down at the crimson staining his tunic. 

“No.” Duro shakes his head awkwardly. “You don’t. I’ve only ever seen you eat fruit and maybe bread. And wine. Lots of wine.”

“Oh.”

Nasir looks down at the boar, sticking fingers petting through its fur before he slowly begins to realize what he’s done. Duro is right. Nasir doesn’t eat meat. His people have rules. They’re not killers. In fact, he can’t remember even a time when he ate any type of animal, but his stomach twists and Nasir suddenly wants more, wants to sink back down and lap the carnage off the soft grass. 

“What shit is this?” A voice cuts through the silent turmoil, a gray cloaked figure appearing next to Duro. 

“Wha-“ The prince doesn’t get to finish his sentence before the woman is smacking him hard in the back of the head, hands falling to her hips. 

“Gawking like a child in the market while your high prince kneels in the grass? Nasir, you should not be fetching your own meat. You should be having it served to you,” Völva stomps her foot, the sound a barely there pat from her slight weight, “Where is that husband of yours? I will not stand for this, and neither should he.”

“He’s at war,” Nasir mutters, seemingly unfazed at the snarking woman having appeared out of nowhere. 

Duro is shell shocked, staring at once where there was empty air and now stands his grandmother, mouth twisted in disdain. It has been some time since Agron and Duro had made the trek through the woods to visit her, at least over a year, and yet she stands the same – vicious and bold. Duro finds himself cowering slightly, hiding a little. 

“At war? Still?” Völva moves forward, kneeling before Nasir to wipe roughly at his face, cleaning the blood mostly from around his mouth. It’s a move very apparent for her status – a mother of sons. “And he leaves you here to hunt for the food for his child? Like you know what you are doing. Are you a wolf? No. He should know better!”

“Völva! Lower your voice,” Duro inches further into the clearing, realizing the volume in which she is talking, “If someone over hears-“

“Fuck them. I will not have my great grandchild fed on wild boar and rotten meat!” Völva replies, pulling Nasir up to his feet. 

It happens before he can catch his sleeve, golden chain slipping out and prison cuff exposed under the fabric. For her age, Völva is still keen – green eyes calculating. She takes it all in slowly, Nasir’s bruised eyes, his narrowed cheeks, the bruises on his wrists and neck – almost as if…but no. That can’t be possible. They wouldn’t. 

“Has he hurt you?” Völva asks softly, though her hands are firm on Nasir’s shoulders. 

“Nothing more than I can handle,” Nasir smiles weakly, patting Völva’s wrinkled face. 

“Isolde would have loved you,” Völva shakes her head, stepping back, “but her tolerance of Gerulf’s fucking shit is what caused her and her sons pain. You are not going back there. You are coming with me.”

“To what end? Hiding in the woods with you? Waiting until Agron comes back and saves me? If he comes back to save me?” Nasir replies sharply, “My place is with my people. I am their prince.”

“You have no people. Your king plots against you. His subjects fall into order.” Völva continues to speak even as Nasir turns away, begins stalking back towards the town. He won’t stay and listen to her, won’t listen to the truth that cuts deeply.

“What will you do when he takes the child from you?” 

“What?” Nasir freezes, hating his feet for the way they sink into the ground. 

“A prophecy foretelling your future, saying you will give birth to the great wolf – a slayer of the darkness and bringer of light in times of turmoil. You are chosen, have been chosen since before you even drew breath in this world.” Völva explains, voice dipping, “You carry the future.”

“I will stay and wait for my husband.” Nasir replies, “and pity the fuck that tries to separate me from my own.”

Nasir’s cloak swirls with shimmers of violet, indigo, and silver as he turns on his heel – marching back to the city. 

 

\- - -

 

Nasir is nearly back to town when he feels eyes on him, watching. He would slow down, calculate his moves more, but he’s exhausted and the idea of falling into his bed and never waking puts caution behind him. He almost lets out a laugh, cursing his luck, when the fingers curl in his hair. 

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing wandering the woods without your master?”

Sedullus leans casually against a tree, holding Nasir in place. Up close like this, Nasir can see the new scar on his cheek – still fresh from an errant dagger through in a bar fight. 

“I’m going home. Leave me alone.” Nasir retorts sharply, trying to pull away. 

Sedullus doesn’t let him go though, turns Nasir to press him up against a tree, hold him steady with a hand against his throat. He smells like sour wine and sweat, beard matted in some places by it. Nasir sneers, recoiling from the stench and the leer Sedullus is giving him. 

“You’re a tough little snake,” Sedullus grins into Nasir’s face, a sticky finger trailing down his jaw. 

“Remove your fucking hands or see them removed for you,” Nasir growls, unable to hold onto his control. He has grown very tired of these people pushing him around, taking what they want. He won’t fucking lay down again, and let them take it all. Not again. 

“Your tongue still lashes,” Sedullus grips his jaw and Nasir feels his magic bubbling, begging to be released, “A dangerous thing. I am surprised your husband has not put it on a leash.”

“My husband is absent nor does he control what I say,” Nasir retorts, moving to slip away but Sedullus pins him back with his hips. 

“I find myself lucky then,” Sedullus smirks, lips trailing up the side of Nasir’s face, “that I find you lacking guards and husband, and yet, eager for my cock.”

He has waited too long. Gerulf demands a grandchild, and if Sedullus can deliver, then the throne will be his. He will finally be able to push that pathetic oaf off of his high horse, strip Agron of his title, his husband, his very life. Sedullus will not fail his king. Not in this. 

“Fuck you.” Nasir spits the words across Sedullus’ face, wiggling to get away, skin warming. “I will see you from this life if you do not let me go, right now.”

“No,” Sedullus’ fingers turn tighter, twisting Nasir’s head to the side, licking slowly up his jaw, “I don’t think you will.” 

His hands are moist when they reach for Nasir’s coverings, caked in blood and dirt. Sedullus only gets the first few clasps open before Nasir acts, spurred on by fury and the dire need to protect the child. His magic lashes out against the attack, slicing up and sharp. The vine cuts a vertical line along the bridge of Sedullus’ nose, blood pouring down his face. 

“You cunt!” Sedullus reacts quickly, using his grip on Nasir’s hair to slam his head back against the tree. It dazes the prince, but not enough that he doesn’t fight back, a swelling of fury as flames burst from his hands. 

It catches on Sedullus’ skin, singeing it and blistering it sharp and warm. The smell is atrocious, and Sedullus gives a shout of pain. The flames still chase each other over his wrists, his fingers and hands. The giant staggers back only to surge forward again with a growl, caught off guard and in pain, but not enough that he won’t battle for what he wants. He doesn’t get the chance though.

“Stop!” Nasir cries out, not truly caring anymore that he shouldn’t be using his magic. He doesn’t care. He is going to fight. He isn’t going to let anyone take anything else from him. 

Sedullus stumbles to a stop, a few inches from pressing against Nasir, as his mouth falls open and blood begins to pour. He tries to say something, to gurgle out a curse or phrase, but there is nothing left to say as the knife in his back twists again and a voice sounds above the pain. It’s all unexpected, a suddenly frozen moment in the fury of the motions. 

“I believe your prince commanded you to stop,” Naevia’s face slides from behind Sedullus’ back, still painted red with war and eyes glowing a shimmering gray, “a law punishable by death.”

“Naevia,” Nasir gasps, relief cascading down his back, allowing him to slump against the tree bark behind him. 

She does not reply until Sedullus slumps to the ground, eyes still wide but lifeless, mouth a gape. Grimacing, Naevia wipes her soiled hands on the grass before stepping forward and pulling Nasir into a tight hug, kissing the side of the head. 

“Your majesty.” Naevia’s grin is genuine, wrinkles in the corners of her eyes.

“It is fucking good to see you,” Nasir gasps, holding his friend tightly. 

“Your husband sends his love,” Naevia smiles slowly as she pulls back, stroking Nasir’s jaw with a gloved fingers, “to you and your pup – which has grown huge since the last time my eyes were upon you.”

Her eyes trail down to Nasir’s open tunic, the stretched bump of his stomach, swollen chest. Nasir blushes under the look, pulling together the fabric the best that he can now that it is ripped. He will need to sneak back into the city and into his tent in case of detection. 

“You look well,” Nasir takes Naevia’s hand and pulls her towards town, “Why do you return?”

Naevia’s hesitation causes Nasir to stumble, turning to look at her sharply. He doesn’t like the guarded look in her eye, but Nasir isn’t sure he wants to hear the results. She is here for a reason, alone and unharmed wandering around in the woods around the city. 

“Agron sent me back for you, to protect you.” Naevia explains simply, “I am here for you and our children.”

Nasir nods, not pressing the matter. He’s not sure he wants to know the real reason, if there is another reason. Instead, Nasir just slips his fingers through Naevia’s and smiles, lets them have this moment before a break in the trees empties them into the city. He’ll leave the body for Duro to find, or maybe Völva. She will know what to do. 

\- - - 

It takes time, a week and a half, for them to even reach the outskirts of their land. Farmlands come first, rolling hills of grains and corn, a gallery of orchards, trees heavy with fruit. The army marches through quickly, not pausing even to pluck apples or stray food. 

Spartacus leads them, diligently guiding them over familiar woods and through small encampments - workers bought to toil the land in the Alptra's disinterest. They are hunters, men and women of the woods, not tireless sowers of the earth. Gerulf has always considered them lesser, bought slaves to give them food and nothing else.

The men pretend they do not see their leader fading, changing more into a beast than man. Agron grows more intense as they move closer to their home, nightmares coming in screams and eyes darkening, wrecking his tent and only soothed by Spartacus whispers of death and reuniting. There is a storm brewing in that gaze, a finality that has washed away the youthful excitement of battle and steeled instead a darker end.

"We will reach the city within the hour," Spartacus moves to stride quickly next to Agron, "Do you long for your home?"

"I long for the press of my hand to husband's face and the comfort of my men returning to their families," Agron replies, adjusting the thick royal cloak around his shoulders. 

"I am sure it will be welcomed with open hearts," Spartacus grins, only to be cut off as Mira presses to his side. She is a welcome distraction.

"Open heart and open thighs," Mira's expression is dirty, winking up at Agron. It provokes the desired reaction, Agron answering with a twitch of his lips, a smirk slightly on a face that has recently been held down in frown. 

"A thing I have longed for, for many nights." Agron replies, ducking head to smother dimples. 

“And I’m sure we will all lose sleep over,” Mira teases again, poking Agron’s side, “I recall wedding night shaking the very heavens.”

“As do I.” 

Agron’s grin cannot last, not when within the next moments, the wood breaks into a small clearing, a large wooden tower standing in the center. It is the markings of the beginning of the town, a watchtower used in guard rotation. It has declined a little, splinters and the splitting of wood, and what once held at least three guards at all time now houses a single boy, barely the age of fifteen. 

“Your majesty!” He drops instantly to his knees, trembling hard enough that his spear shakes. 

“Where are your commanders? Where are the others?” Spartacus barks, surveying the tower from below, “Why are you not on perch?”

“I-I-I-“ the boy trembles and Agron rolls his eyes, trying to steal patience from the very fucking heavens. They do not have time for this.

“Find voice,” Spartacus hisses, kneeling down towards the boy. He does not like the look of the situation – a prominent guard post left empty except in the hands of a child? Why would Gerulf pull the guards in unless there was something of extreme importance? 

“The rest fall to celebration,” the boy finally chatters out, “The wolf moon is but week away and festivities have started and the king would see them well supplied with drink and flesh.”

Agron glances up at the setting sun. The full moon will soon be upon them. He hadn’t even noticed, too driven to get home, by the nightmares of Nasir falling dead into his hands. Of the swimming suspicion that something is so very fucking wrong. He can barely breathe thinking about what Gerulf would have planned for the little prince during a festival like this. 

“And why were you not pulled into celebrate as well?” Spartacus asks, eying the boy suspiciously. 

“A grave mistake,” the boy does not raise his eyes, instead stares intently at their booted feet, “I offered bread to a seer from the North, sent here as emissary. Your father’s new laws do not allow for such, but the girl was barely of my age. She was starved.”

“What new laws?” Agron’s voice is not without growl. 

“No one that is not Alptra blood should be without escort. They must not use their magic or will be put to death. Everyone must train to be a soldier now.” The boy rattles off, “And everyone must produce one child by the end of the year.”

“And he enforces these by punishing his own people?” Agron asks, not expecting a reply, but the boy raises his eye, fearfully meeting Agron’s eyes. 

“Please do not kill me for betraying the king’s trust,” he whispers, “I could not see her die. Just as I believe you would had you seen the treatment of your husband.”

“What do you speak of?” Agron bites out, reaching out to grip the boy’s shoulder. Spartacus’ hackles raise from the tone, unsure if he would intervene or not. 

“Nasir stands as entertainment tonight,” the guard flinches but does not pull away, can’t with how tightly Agron holds him, “To dance as the moon for the wolves.”

Agron and Spartacus share a look, knowing what that means. Gerulf is a man without honor, without any sense of what is wrong and right. If he strips Nasir down, shows him as if god amongst wolves, then their hidden secret will be revealed. 

“We are to town. Quickly now. No rest until we arrive,” Agron commands, adjusting his cloak again before walking around the boy. 

 

\- - - 

 

“So your brilliant plan is to use your magic all night for this?” Pietros asks, sticking silver jewels down Nasir’s spine, spinning them into a pattern over his lower back above his metallic pants. 

“And what else would you suggest?” Nasir bites out amongst the pins placed in his mouth, using them to pull another strand of his hair up. “Dance before them thick with child?”

“Run away. Go see Agron’s grandmother. Hide yourself away before all is lost,” Pietros begs, hands warm on Nasir’s cold shoulders. 

“You know that is not an option.” Nasir finishes with his hair, shaking his head. He has so long been without his crown that it now feels strange once more around his temples, a mockery of the position he once held. He is nothing but a common slave now. 

“Think of the repercussions if they find out what you carry, who you carry.” Pietros’ words fall completely on deaf ears. Nasir won’t hear what he has to say, mind made up. With a sick twist of his stomach, Pietros ignores the way Nasir’s own fingertips linger over his stomach, smearing the salve into his skin. It smells sharply of spearmint and eucalyptus. 

“I can’t.” Nasir whispers, caressing the bulk of his stomach. He feels so large now, curve prominent, arching his back slightly. The baby sends a soft wave of magic over him, a warm caress like the breeze in spring, something that it does only when it senses Nasir’s despair. 

“Are you sure that this won’t harm it?” Pietros moves around to Nasir’s front, laying his fingertips over Nasir’s. Four months in and Pietros has not seen the vision of the child again, not felt the kick of its body against his palm. Nasir darts eyes when asked, shaking head. It will not answer until order has been restored – presence of both parents necessary for life to flourish. 

“No. It will just conceal it for a while, just long enough for them to be entertained and I will sneak back away to the dark.” Nasir meets Pietros’ eyes, ignoring the burning of betraying tears. He will not cry over this. “With me?”

“Always,” Pietros means it. Fuck. He means it so much. 

The magic is slow, a dim shadow stretching and growing from between their fingertips, encompassing Nasir’s stomach, his chest. He bites back the cry, the pain shooting through him as his body changes, shrinks in on itself. A scream muffled by his teeth in his bottom lip, and Nasir does not falter but silently begs forgiveness from Agron that he will not see this as a betrayal but a means to an end. 

“Fuck!” Nasir gasps when it is done, staring down at the flat plains of his stomach once more. 

Pietros cannot muster the words to say how fucking wrong this is. Hiding the baby in magic, praying it will last long enough for Nasir to be used once more. Pietros curses this fucking place, curses the very fucking air that fills their lungs with toxic fumes. He wishes they had never come here, that this all had never happened. 

“Finish painting me.” Nasir raises eyes to roof of tent, blinking back emotion. “I would stand ready for tonight.”

“Yes, your majesty.” Pietros can do nothing but do as told.

 

\- - - 

 

The drums pound, a thumping like a heartbeat, sounding out amongst the silent woods. The Alptra are calling up the moon, begging the goddess to shine her light down, to bless them. For the people, they are prayers of forgiveness, of blessing, of begging for Gerulf’s reign of terror to be lifted. For the king, it is the frenzy of the fight – the calling of his power – his ultimate rule. 

The people form large circles, staring where the platform is formed with moonstone. There is no fire tonight, just the glowing gems of silver, violet, and indigo. It will be the stage upon which their truest sacrifice will be shown – Nasir to gain the goddess’ blessing and become pregnant with an heir that very night. 

It’s a frenzy, people writhing together, throwing silver and blue glitter in the air, begging for the stars to come down upon them. Duro had seen Nasir earlier, painted with silver swirls and jewels, pants slit up the side and feet bare. He has been reduced to the seductive dancer he was the night he got here, enticing Agron forward and down, so far down into magic. Nasir had not said anything to him, simply nodded his head and slipped into a different tent. Duro hadn’t even the mind to ask where the child had gone and why Nasir’s body is back to as it was before. 

“Father, I must protest this.” Duro does not know where he finds the courage, but it must be something in Nasir’s eyes when he was lead before them, something dark and twisted. 

“There is nothing to protest. What’s done is done. I will have what I paid for, and you will have someone to warm your bed,” Gerulf does not take his eyes off the crowd, perched as they are upon their throne, overlooking the platform. 

“He is your son’s fucking husband,” Duro cannot keep words back, cannot stand idle any longer, “Agron? Do you remember your heir? The one you sent to die?”

“I can have other sons,” Gerulf hisses, nails digging into the back of Duro’s neck as he pulls him forward, “Do you not realize what this plot is? I gave the boy to Agron instead of myself so that your brother would not kill the child to secure he place to the throne. If I had a son with Nasir, there would be no safety for it. You would regard it as a threat – as a dark mark against your mother. This has never been about love or fancy notions. Nasir has something that I want, and I want it now.”

“You are a monster,” Duro gasps, eyes widening, “How can you do this?” 

“Because I am fucking king,” Gerulf replies easily, “and if you wish to remain upon this earth, you will bow and do as commanded. Why do you think I fill our town with questionable allies? They are not here for you or our people. They are here to make sure I remain on the throne.”

Duro recoils, falling back into his own throne, and fucking prays. Sends out every hope and whispers that he can. Pretends for just a moment that this is not happening. How had it gotten this far? When had they all fallen into the shadow of Gerulf’s fury? 

The music entices the crowd into what feels like madness, writhing together, howling together. Pulses and anticipation, and sweat slides down Duro’s temple, the fear that something horrible is about to happen – something that will change them forever. The people seem to sense it too, restless. They fight and howl, echoing around the clearing, the whole town seeming to be lost in the fury. 

It’s the roar that stops it all, pauses the whole fucking earth. It’s enough to shakes the trees, the ground, the very air. The woods split from it, tremble under the fury, as men begin to pour from between the pines, halting on the edges of the celebration. They are caked in blood, painted crimson from battle, weary and furious. All fall common, bland really, in comparison to the crown prince. 

Agron stands taller than the rest, chest heaving under the thick constrains of his armor. Mouth open around long, sharp fangs, dripping spit as he roars again, standing before his men. The peasants cry out, recoiling and falling over themselves in fear, for sure that a demon stands before them. It’s a flurry of motion until they still, caught in horror as Agron shouts the command for them to still. 

It’s a standoff before the army that returns and the people that greet them, whole world seeming to fall silent as Gerulf slowly stands, clapping his hands together in delight. There is a madness to him, a glint in his eye that does not seem right. 

“My son!” Gerulf grins slowly, hiding his shock well, “You return to us unharmed and victorious. This feast is for you.”

“Where,” Agron’s words are labored, growling each vowel, “is my husband?”

“He is well. Untouched and unharmed,” Gerulf lies easily, spreading his arms as if to come down from his pedestal and embrace his son. He does not move though, does not lower himself. “Come, let us indulge in the moon’s rising power.”

“Where is my husband?” Agron seems to grow larger, leather cracking with the stretch of holding back his broadening chest. Fur sprouts along the back of his neck, down over his spine. 

“Agron-“ Gerulf tries for lightness, as if this is a game, but is cut off as his son lets out a furious growl. No one in the city moves, no one thinks to breathe.

“Where is my fucking husband?” 

Duro is the first and only one to act, slowly rising from his seat and stepping down onto the dew heavy grass. He walks slow, deliberate, with hands raised in submission. He moves cautiously, eyes never leaving Agron as he moves just around the edges of the crowd and to a small tent nearby. The door is latched tightly shut, tied closed with thick leather straps, but Duro quickly and blindly undoes them, opening it wide. 

Nasir stands as a vision, hands loose at either side. He has been made up beautifully, swirls of glitter and silver paint adoring him, hair piled high on his head and costume a mixture of white and silver. Raising his head slowly, his eyes widen when he glances past his brother-in-law to see who stands on the other side of the clearing. 

Eyes moving slowly, Agron ignores the body paint, ignores how beautiful Nasir looks after nearly two months. Instead, he takes in the bruises on his collarbones, the dark shadows under his eyes. The flatness of his body is unsettling, but it all fades a little under the notice of the thick, metal cuff around Nasir’s wrist, the chain being held by a random guard. 

“See,” Gerulf laughs lightly, moving down to walk to his son, placating, “all is well, loving husband was to perform for your expected return. We saw you advancing towards the city and thought of only showing you our gratitude for a war well fought.”

“Your words are poisonous honey,” Agron growls, low enough that only those nearby can hear, “and I will see you choke on them.”

“Behave, my son. Do you not see the men that crowd around the gathering? The ones with swords loyal to me and me alone? Do you wish to start a blood bath? No. Smile and remember,” Gerulf smirks, turning back towards the crowd, “This is for you.”

“Our army is weary from travel and the long plight of war,” Agron answers, barely being able to contain his rage, wanting nothing more than to yank Gerulf’s head from his fucking throat. “I would see us to rest and the solitude of our families.”

“You would rob them of this sight?” Gerulf motions and the guard pulls Nasir forward, the moonstones reflecting on his skin. Nasir flinches as he is led, wrist extended but eyes staring at Agron – growing larger as if he can’t believe who he sees. There is a sad beauty about him, a shadow of what he used to be – back when Agron could be awed just by the blush upon Nasir’s cheek when he would wake. Nasir does not need the embellishments to stand above and beyond all others in Agron’s eyes. 

“Yes.”

Agron moves forward, ignoring his father’s huff in favor of drawing close to his husband. He’s afraid a little, to touch the soft cut of Nasir’s jaw, his trembling mouth. Has Nasir always been this small, this frail looking? Agron remembers a thicker build and color in his cheeks, laughter in eyes that are now dark. 

The golden band around Nasir’s wrist is thick, welded together, but Agron wraps his fingers around it and tugs, easily splitting it in half. The shackle falls to the grass, a soft thump, and Gerulf’s eyes narrow, but Agron doesn’t care. Not with the way Nasir looks, terrified and awed. 

It’s with shaking hands that Nasir presses his palm to Agron’s jaw, strokes his face as if he’s made of glass. The feeling of this skin, those eyes staring down at him, it’s been so long and Nasir can barely believe that Agron is here. Present and tangible. 

“My eyes betray me, and yet my hands cannot,” Nasir whispers, bottom lip wobbling as he continues to stroke Agron’s face. “Does my husband truly stand before me or a phantom dream?

“I am here, my love.” Agron lowers down, presses his forehead gently to Nasir’s. “I have missed you.” 

“Not a day has passed when my mind has been on you,” Nasir replies, gently stroking along Agron’s neck, down onto his chest. “And I have longed for your embrace.”

Agron finds the strength to raise his arms, to touch gently to Nasir’s waist, but the motion is cut short. Nasir pulls back with a gasp of pain, recoiling as if he’s been burnt. He does not offer way of explanation, just hunches down, cradling his stomach. Agron can feel it though, taste the heat of magic that flares between them, the distant sounds of growling. He doesn’t understand, wants to pull Nasir closer, off him comfort – but Nasir turns away sharply.

“Go, retreat to your tent for much deserved rest. Your brother will deliver your husband to you when the time is right,” Gerulf makes a pointed glance at Duro, urging him to take Nasir. His suggestion is not without his agenda though, previous conversation lingering on the back of the younger prince’s mind. “We will have feast tomorrow.”

“No, wait-“ Agron means to step forward, hurt but not dissuaded from being close to his husband, but Duro touches his shoulder gently, shaking his head. 

“There is much to discuss and many things to inform you of.” Duro whispers, shaking his head, “Look at him, I do not believe that he wishes to be presented to you like this. Let Pietros and Nasir wash away magic and unnecessary paint and I will tell you all.”

“What has happened here?” Agron replies, ignoring his father’s impatient noise behind them. There are shadows in the city, horrors that linger that were not here before, a type of fear mounting with every moment. 

“A nightmare.” Duro meets Agron’s look gravely, mouth in a grimace as he turns back to his brother-in-law. He does not 

It’s as if Agron has not even been gone, as if he doesn’t exist standing there, army at his fucking back. Duro gently wraps his arm around Nasir’s shoulders, pulling him out from before the still awestruck crowd, giving Agron a tightlipped smile. Nasir does not raise his head, but his fingertips trail over Agron’s wrist for a moment, the briefest of touches.

The army behind Agron slowly disperses, murmuring to one another, nodding towards their prince. It is awkward, to rejoin their families, to pull them close when festivities are so halted. The nearly two months absent has stretched too long – both sides having endured too many horrors for the transition to be easy. 

“See to Nasir,” Spartacus whispers in Agron’s ear, hand warm on his back, “Comfort him and restore his strength. I fear we may need him at full power soon.” 

He draws Agron’s attention to the group of men lingering next to Gerulf, eyes gleaming unnaturally and faces grim. It does not escape the prince or the general that these are not Alptra guards, nor are they shape shifters or wolves. They are something else – something darker.

 

\- - - 

 

Agron’s ears still ring with the horrors of what has happened, Duro’s stories repeating through his mind. Tales of his father’s growing power, what has been done to his husband in his absence, the foreign men coming in – taking position as guards. Sedullus’ mysterious murder. The lingering shadow upon Gerulf’s back.

He has stripped from his armor, clad in simple tan cloth once more with bandaged arm. Nightmares were result of stray vampire bite, a thing that brought forth Agron’s deepest fears. Standing here though, once more in his own chambers, the image of Nasir’s dark eyes, mouth stained red with life, does not seem that far away. 

“You are injured.”

A voice, soft and somber, sounds from the deep shadows along the edges of the tent. Agron hadn’t even heard Nasir come in, can barely make him out. Standing there in a loose robe, a litter of stars cascading down the black fabric, only broken apart by Nasir’s long hair. He is without embellishments now, no jewels on his cheeks or within his hair.

“A scratch,” Agron turns slowly, illumination of the fire making him glow bronze. 

“You swore such would not happen,” Nasir replies, moving behind a long, white curtain. 

“I broke many promises these past few days,” Agron does not move towards his husband, lets Nasir stalk him like prey, “None which I regret more than promising you your safety.”

“A thing of little importance in Gerulf’s plan for us,” Nasir scoffs, tone dripping in scorn.

“You are angry with me,” Agron stands helpless, staring at the shadows playing over Nasir’s half masked face, barely illuminated by a nearby candle. 

“I thought you were dead,” Nasir chokes out, “Why did you not send me a message? Why did you not come back to our dreams?”

“I sent you messages. Barca sent the birds,” Agron replies, gut twisting. He had feared that Nasir had not received them, but if he hadn’t – then who had? “We only got one reply from Pietros.”

Nasir smooths a hand down his stomach, feeling the baby’s magic shift, twisting. It can sense the closeness of its father, wants to have them join together – let the magic rekindle and burn like it had before. Nasir can’t do it yet. Can’t have Agron see the changes, the growth, and have him turn away. He wants to stay back, observe the man for just a while longer.

“I waited for you.” Nasir’s voice is back to being faint. “We waited for you.”

“And I am here.” Agron replies urgently, “I am here. Do not push me away again. Nasir, please.”

He reaches out his hands, urges Nasir from the darkness which is so easy to hide. He would pull Nasir into the light, remind him that they once had good days – they had hope and joy and love once. They can reclaim it, demand it for themselves, if only Nasir would come out. 

Nasir’s feet are bare, peeking out from under the robe as he moves towards Agron. He doesn’t lower his eyes, doesn’t falter, but stares ahead at his husband, pausing when he gets a close enough that he could reach his hand out and touch. He doesn’t though, stares up at Agron with wide eyes – unable to stop the ribbons of gold that suddenly ghost over his arms, up his neck – magic calling out to its mate.

“Show me.”

Agron doesn’t have to, Nasir knows what he means, but he runs the tip of his finger over the silver cord holding Nasir’s robe shut over his stomach. He feels the hot little burst, like a shine of the sun against his finger, marveling as he feels the child’s magic. It’s torture and perfection.

Nasir hesitates for just a moment, letting the fear and insecurity nearly swallow him whole. How can he stand so fearful before his husband? Agron’s whose skin is liquid bronze, steel hardened down to soft skin, smooth. He’s staring at Nasir with gleaming eyes, a shiver coaxing its way through Nasir’s spine when Agron’s chest rises and falls like that – contained power just a moment away from being unleashed. He takes one deep breath, steels himself for it, before undoing the ties and letting the fabric pool around his feet. 

It’s hard to tell what Agron takes in firs, overwhelmed by the total image of him. Nasir is naked except for a jeweled belt, an intricate woven design of crystals and pearls. It drapes down his thighs in individual strands, showcasing the smooth curve of them, gathering together in a half moon pattern over his cock, hiding the more intimate part from Agron’s eyes. The diamonds glitter in the light, but everything falls fucking away in comparison to the way Nasir’s stomach extends – full of life. It is not a small bump, easily hidden, but instead is swollen with life, large enough to force Nasir’s back to arch under the weight. 

“Oh fuck.”

Agron gasps, hands instantly going to cup and rub over Nasir’s navel, caressing the skin gently as he measures with his fingers, inches over the stretched tan flesh. He’s so warm, an inferno and Agron can’t resist it. He spans his palms over Nasir’s widened hips, tracing the arch of his body back up to his ribs. Nasir lets him do it all silently, only hissing when Agron’s thumb brushes against his nipple.

“I did not think it possible,” Agron murmurs, lowering his mouth gently to Nasir’s shoulder, “but you have grown even more perfect. Fuck, Nasir, you have no idea.”

“You flatter,” Nasir’s eyes flutter closed as Agron’s teeth drag along the bones of his chest.

Raising his head slowly, Agron laps gently at Nasir’s bottom lip before pulling him into a kiss. It starts dirty, Nasir’s mouth falling open under Agron’s, tilting his head back. He doesn’t try and fight it, let’s Agron’s taste evade his mouth, arches into him. Agron takes his time tracing over the roof of Nasir’s mouth, bites his bottom lip, sucks on his tongue until Nasir moans loudly. Makes up for lost time, rememorizes every inch of Nasir that he can reach.

Agron lowers himself down, trails his mouth hot and wet along Nasir’s neck, bites him until Nasir cries out, fingers tugging roughly on Agron’s hair. He marks his path, nibbles at Nasir’s chest, sucks on a nipple until it flushes, traces his tongue down his sternum, until he gets to his real prize. He kisses Nasir’s stomach gently at first, peppers the stretched skin with gentle caresses followed by his fingers before he sets his mouth to true work.

He makes quick work of it, sucking marks quickly while dragging his palms up and down the back of Nasir’s trembling thighs. He does not miss the way he spreads his legs, even just slightly, hands in Agron’s hair keeping him against Nasir’s skin. When Agron is pleased with his work, he pulls back to sit on his haunches, gazing up at his husband – mouth bruised and eyes gleaming.

Nasir already looks debauched, eyes dark and hair mused from Nasir running his fingers through it. Agron wants him so much he can barely contain himself, cock already throbbing in the confines of his cloth. 

The air is thick with it, the lust that has sweat beading down Agron’s back and a static electricity sparking with every movement. Silently, Nasir lets go of Agron’s hair to tease his fingers up his own thigh, a teasing move that Agron follows with his eyes. Nasir caresses over himself, face still neutral but eyes betraying him, how much he wants this, before easily undoing a latch hidden amongst the jewels and diamonds along his hipbone. The chained belt drops to the ground with a thud, leaving Nasir completely naked. 

Agron stands, slides his hands down Nasir’s back, over his spine and the curve of his waist to his ass, easily lifting the other man into the air. Even with the added bulk, Nasir is light in Agron’s arms, easily wrapping his legs around his waist. Relaxes as Agron moves them to the bed, lays him down his back, and Nasir stares up at him with half lidded eyes as Agron pulls the last bit of fabric separating them off. 

“Have you laid with anyone else?” Nasir gasps as Agron settles between his legs, inclining his head to the side so Agron can trail biting kisses along his neck. 

“Never,” Agron swears, biting roughly into the tendon connecting Nasir’s neck to shoulder, ignoring the absurdity of the question. 

“I had a dream in which you returned with a vampire prince,” Nasir reaches down between them, strokes the tips of his fingers over Agron’s flushed cock, “and found no need of me anymore.”

“Fears and nothing more,” Agron pulls back, strokes his hands over Nasir’s stomach like he can’t get enough touching the swell of it. “I thought of nothing but you. My heart is forever tied to you.”

Nasir cannot smother the breathy grin he gives Agron, pushing himself up on his elbows to reach Agron’s cock again, stroking it slowly, twisting around the tip. It leaks against his fingers, drips down his wrist and onto his waist. Agron massages it into his skin with wild eyes, a dangerous little snarl slipping out. 

He slips back down the bed, trailing fevered kisses along the way before he reaches Nasir’s cock. It stands proud and flushed against Nasir’s stomach, and Agron flattens his tongue along the underside of it, dragging it up until he can lave the tip back and forth over the slit. Suckling the precome from the crown, Agron lowers down until he can take it all, letting it hit the back of his throat in the first go. 

“Agron – Oh fuck!” Nasir whines, thrashing against the furs as his heels drag on the fabric. With the added weight, it is not easy task to lift his hips, but his body seems to chase the sensation with little thought to its capabilities. 

Agron keeps up his pace, sucks Nasir down and then back up, hums and rubs his fingers along the soft skin of Nasir’s balls. It entices more sounds from him, moaning and cries and Nasir’s fingers tugging roughly again at Agron’s hair. He isn’t going to last, not with the way Agron pushes his fingers further back, strokes gently over Nasir’s hole, entices Nasir’s legs up and over his shoulders. 

Dragging his heels down Agron’s back, Nasir stares at the ceiling and cries out – hunts to find some sense. And fuck every moment they were separated. Fuck the eyes and hands that reached for Nasir, pulled his hair and thought to claim him. There is no man or god or beast that can possibly stand above the one currently between his legs.

When he comes, Agron suckles it all into his mouth, waits until Nasir is reduced to trembles and whimpers before sliding up the bed and kissing the liquid into Nasir’s mouth. He shares the taste, holds Nasir’s jaw open to feed it to him. Nasir takes it, swallows himself down and then laps it from Agron’s tongue, dazed and whining again. 

“I need you inside of me,” Nasir gasps into Agron’s ear, sweat slicking his hands down Agron’s broad back. 

“The baby-“ Agron tries to protest even as he slides his cock along Nasir’s hip, hunting for friction. 

“It’s fine.” Nasir reassures, spreading his legs around Agron’s thighs, exposes himself to his husband. “It is still small.”

Agron eyes Nasir’s stomach in disbelief, shaking his head, “You will give birth to a giant.”

“Do you expect anything less for your child?” Nasir teases, wrapping his arms around Agron’s waist and tugging him down, breathing the words against Agron’s mouth, stroking over his skin, “It is destined for great things – like its father.”

“You are a great thing,” Agron growls, kissing Nasir again, flattening him back on the bed. 

“Then have me,” Nasir gasps into Agron’s ear, pressing to him tightly. 

Agron hesitates, meets Nasir’s eyes before he slips back. It’s been too fucking long and Agron promises himself he’ll be as gentle as he can, but they both needs this. Separation has caused wound that Agron see filled by pleasure and ecstasy. He guides Nasir up, turns him over and onto his knees, caresses his hands down his sides, his hips, his thighs. Can’t stop touching him, teasing his fingers over where their child rests. 

Lacing their fingers together, Agron leads Nasir’s hands up, wraps his palms over the top of the headboard, presses down to make sure Nasir does as told. It stretches Nasir’s back out, arches his back so that his ass sticks out, one long line of tan skin. Agron trusts him not to move as he slips off the bed, drags the oil closer. 

He kisses Nasir’s tailbone, trails his tongue down to lap teasingly along Nasir’s hole. The smaller man answers with a whimper, knees sliding further apart, but he doesn’t move his hands nor does he pull away. Agron knows though, knows if he continues this way, that Nasir will come again and will be too tired, too high on pleasure, to let Agron inside of him. Instead, the prince must take his time, draw the pleasure from Nasir like a slow note. 

Tilting the bowel, Agron drizzles the warm liquid over Nasir’s spine, his ass, between. The oil glistens in the firelight, embossed with the rivers of golden light from Nasir’s magic. Agron rubs it into his skin, massages down the tensed muscles. It eases the way when Agron slips the first finger into Nasir’s body. 

“Agron, the vines!” Nasir gasps, glancing over his shoulder at Agron, panic shining through the pleasure. “I can’t use my magic. The laws-” Tiny green vines have begun to climb up the walls of the tent, twisting over one another – reminiscent of the couple’s first night together. 

“Don’t fucking hold back,” Agron growls the words into Nasir’s back as he slips another finger inside him, twists them and opens, “I want to hear you. I want to feel you. I want everyone in this fucking hell to see what I do to you. To know who does it right.”

Nasir whimpers, dropping his head back down as Agron’s fingers through into him a rougher, opening him up slowly but deeply. His thighs are shaking, arms cramped from holding himself up, but he can’t even imagine moving away. He wants it too much, needs to have Agron right here – always right here. Through the lust, through the daze of becoming filled, Nasir cannot shake the devotion – the love in every brush of Agron’s lips to his skin, his panted breath.

Wrapping his hands around Nasir’s wrists, Agron guides him up on his knees, caressing his hands down Nasir’s forearms, down his biceps, over his chest. He slicks him with oil, uses the friction to rub against Nasir’s sensitive chest, entice his nipples into sharp points before pinching them – only to hear that strangled little scream Nasir makes – overly sensitive. Every inch of him seems to draw new sounds, new trembles, and Nasir tips his head back and moans for it – begs for it. 

“Relax back,” Agron murmurs, hooking on of Nasir’s arms over the back of his neck, kissing his cheek gently. 

Agron guides him, one hand on his stomach and one hold his own cock as Nasir eases down onto it. It’s slow, a gentle pressing, before ages pass and time slows and Nasir collapses back fully, head resting on Agron’s shoulder. The position has Agron in deeply, but gives him all the control as he lifts his hips experimentally, grinding into Nasir. He gives him time, lets him adjust after so long, and Nasir turns his head with teary eyes and puckers for a kiss – enough to ease the pain. 

“I love you,” Agron presses his lips over and over to Nasir’s, entices his mouth open to taste him gently. It melts Nasir even further back against him, pressed flush. 

“I love you too.”

Nasir lifts himself just a few inches, drops down with a whimpered cry, too full – perfectly full – everything that Nasir needs and wants and Agron is there to deliver. Agron takes it as permission, hands smoothing over Nasir’s body, taking over control as he thrusts up and back. It rocks them together, a dance that has them breathing noises and pants into each other’s mouths. 

Rubbing circles, Agron can’t seem to stop touching Nasir’s chest, tracing his breastbones, down over the swell of their baby. It does not matter that time has moved forward or that Agron was absent for so long. All that matters is the flutter of magic, the licks of flames and gold and the crosshatching of vines surrounding them. This is their oasis, their kingdom. Fuck the rest of the world. 

It’s too soon, too fast, and Agron grinds up into Nasir, holds him tightly. Nasir can barely breathe, mouth numb from kissing Agron over and over. There are flowers blooming over the bedframe, petals showering down upon them and Nasir is choking on it and breathing for the very first fucking time. His cock presses hot and heavy against his stomach, forgotten when Agron drags his own across the bundle of nerves that has a lick of flame traveling from the tip of Nasir’s tongue to Agron’s. 

Nasir’s nails drag through Agron’s hair, head tilted to the side to kiss him fully, and he comes a second time with Agron’s tongue in his mouth and his hands all over him. It’s heaven and it’s torture and Nasir isn’t sure if he’s crying or he’s begging or if there are even any words to describe the waves of pained pleasure coursing through him. 

Agron’s grip moves to his shoulder, pushes Nasir forward a little to rut into him harder. It’s perfect, the way Nasir grips him, milks him, comes undone just for Agron. It brings him to the edge, heat trickling down Agron’s back as his nails dangerously press to Nasir’s soft skin. He won’t hurt him though, cups the life that grows between them and sits his teeth into Nasir’s neck, sucks a mark as he fills him, growling loudly. 

There is no rain outside. The night is still, but petals fall from the ceiling like raindrops, lingering in the air before they touch the panting men. They spin slowly, rotating like little droplets until they dissolve on the ground, hiding away their existence. 

“Fuck,” Agron nuzzles against his husband’s jaw, “I missed you, everything about you.”

“I missed you so much,” Nasir scratches absentmindedly at the back of Agron’s neck, leaning into his touch. 

“We will not move from this bed until we have made up for all the day we were parted.” Easing Nasir up, Agron regretfully must pull out, gently as possible. “I have not had my fill of you.”

“I fear we will never leave then,” Nasir smiles faintly, curling up with his head on Agron’s chest as much as he can, stomach pressed to his husband’s side. 

They lay in silence for a while, Agron stroking along Nasir’s stomach while the other traces random shapes on Agron’s chest. It is strange, calm when they both know that outside of their tent a war rages on – pitting them against all. There is no saying anymore who they can trust, who their people are. Too many outsiders now flock to Gerulf’s side – a line beginning to form. 

Trailing his fingers lazily along Nasir’s jaw, Agron tilts his face up for a gentle kiss before leaning back, staring openly at him. He’ll never get over what Nasir looks like after sex, still a little sweaty and open, eyes glazed, and so fucking lovely. 

“Are you alright?” Agron asks softly, and Nasir leans up, presses their mouths together in a chase kiss. 

“I am now.”

“Duro told me what he did to you,” Agron flinches with the words, holding back the fury. “What he made you do.”

He cannot even imagine all the horrors that Nasir has had to endure, and once again, Agron is the cause. Agron left him here, left him in hands that hurt instead of protected. Agron killed men and women and children, and yet he now lays with his husband like he’s deserving? The memories are too much, blank sheets that darken Agron’s mood, still the lingering shocks of pleasure straight from his spine. 

“Give me your hand.” Nasir struggles to push himself up, sensing the shift in mood. He takes Agron’s wrist, presses his palm to the soft curve along the right side of his stomach, and then waits. 

It doesn’t take long, the soft fluttering pressing up against Agron’s fingers. The prince doesn’t move, eyes growing wide as Nasir’s stomach does it again, growing stronger. It’s odd, like a little tickle against him, but the warmth of the magic underneath is enough for a brilliant reassurance. 

“Do you know what one of the last things my father said to me was?” Nasir asks, meeting Agron’s eye with an earnest expression. The other prince scoffs, shaking his head. 

“Kill the beast and I will come back and rescue you?”

“No,” Nasir taps Agron’s lips with his fingers, shushing him, “He said that the sins of the father are not the sins of the son.”

“Nasir, I am not-“ Agron begins, but is cut off with a shake of his husband’s head.

“This is all that matters, my king,” Nasir murmurs, resting his forehead against Agron’s, “Do you feel that? Your child has not stopped kicking since you appeared before me. It is happy. It needs you, your magic, you guidance. I need you.” 

Agron sighs, nuzzling his nose along the tip of Nasir’s, kissing him with a simple brush of their lips. 

“I need you too.” 

They lay back down, wrap around one another, erase the pain and fear of the previous days in the gentle caresses of each other’s skin, the heat growing between them, the slipping together into perfection. 

\- - - 

 

Sunlight blinks in a single line across the horizon as Duro stalks through the city. He is still sore, body tingling from Auctus’ and his reunion. There hadn’t been that many words, just moans and cries for more, and a murmured conversation afterward about the couple also sharing their bed. Duro has to push the image of Pietros and Barca’s skin from his mind as he rounds upon his brother’s tent. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Duro barks, spotting a guard lingering outside of his brother’s tent, back resting comfortably against a pillar. 

“Good morning, your highness,” Donar nods, head tilting slightly. There is an empty of amphora next to him, blanket wrapped around his legs.

“Answer the question, you fuck,” Duro doesn’t reach for his sword, but his fingers itch to do so. He doesn’t like turning on his friends like this, but who can he trust anymore but his own makeshift family?

“I am on guard duty,” Donar stands slowly, shrugging, “It is my duty to make sure Agron is safe.”

“By lingering outside his tent?” Duro raises an eyebrow, gaze sliding over the thick vines and flowers hiding the canvas. The door has been hacked open though, and Duro turns narrowed eyes back towards Donar. “Did you watch them?”

“No,” Donar stretches casually, “I had to make sure Agron was taken care of though, that the little witch caused him no harm. He did just return from war. There is no saying what he is capable of.”

“You are a sick fuck,” Duro snarls, shoulders raising as he tenses, “They’re fucking married. Nasir would not betray him.”

“Like he did with you?” Donar raises an eyebrow, “On the very same night that Agron left his side.”

“What?” Duro steps back, hand curling up on the hilt of his sword. “What the fuck did you just say?”

“You removed Castus from tent so you could fuck your brother’s husband,” Donar shrugs as if what he’s saying isn’t high treason, “I was standing guard right outside. Did you really think I wasn’t going to hear him moaning? Calling out for you? I saw the fire Duro, there is no use denying it.”

“No-“ Duro tries to defend, only for Donar to laugh, shit eating grin growing across his face. 

“I heard him. I saw him writhing on the bed under you and his magic, pouring out in waves. You and Agron have always been so close, but I never pegged him for the type to share his toy with you.”

Duro doesn’t say anything, mind wandering back to the dim light on Pietros’ shoulders this morning, pressed to Duro’s front while his fingers had trailed down Barca’s chest. And wasn’t it fucking time that they got some reprieve from all of this bullshit? Duro has grown so weary of the constant struggle, and yet here is another one, presented by the grinning shit. 

Rushing forward, Duro grips Donar’s neck and slams him up against the pillar he had just been resting on, pressing closely so he can breathe the words against the other man’s surprised face. 

“You saw nothing,” Duro growls, teeth sharp, “Whatever it is that you think you know, you don’t. Now remove yourself from my sight.”

“Majesty,” Donar does not bow respectfully as he should, turning away and muttering loud enough for Duro to hear, “At least if he has a baby we won’t be able to tell who the father is.”

“You!” Duro snaps, moving to grip the other’s arm when the flap of the tent nearby is thrown back, Agron striding out in a thin cloth. 

There are scratches down his chest, looping around to his back where they crisscross – skin welted and hot. A kiss bruise is bitten into his pectoral, purple and crimson, large enough it looks like the rest of a scream pressed against his skin. Agron does not aware of how he looks, or if he is, he doesn’t care. He just slowly takes in both men before frowning.

“What are you two doing?” Agron asks, then as if thinking better of it, shakes his head, “Forget it. Donar, make yourself useful and fetch pitcher of water and food. Make sure to bring the honeyed fruit, I would see my husband well fed before day starts.”

“Majesty,” Donar bows his head, “I would request audience-“

“Yes, yes,” Agron waves his hand, not bothering to let the other man finish, “We will discuss war and stories later. Do as I commanded first.”

Donar nods once, shooting Duro a knowing look before turning sharply on his heel. The threat is apparent, but Duro doesn’t let it bother him too much. Agron trusted Duro with Nasir. He would not think they would betray him. And if subject is broached, then Duro is sure Agron will believe them.

“How does my little brother fare?” Duro asks, forgetting temporary the toils of the day. He leans heavily against his brother’s side, ignoring the familiar scent of sex and sweat in favor of familiar body and man.

“He is well,” Agron grins, dimples on full display, “Come inside, but keep voice low. He still yet slumbers.”

Duro follows his brother inside silently, eyes scanning the room, not sure what he expects. It’s fairly the same though, decorated tastefully with only an abandoned set of armor against the wall hinting at Agron’s return. Nasir is sprawled on his back on the bed, blankets low on his hips and revealing his stomach, the dark bruises on his torso from Agron’s eager mouth. He is beautiful, hand curled by his face and hair a mass of unruly tangles around him. It’s the expression on his face though that throws Duro off, Nasir looks peaceful, almost happy. It’s a look the older prince hasn’t seen in a long time. 

“I take it from the vines that you spent last night making up for lost time?” Duro teases, flopping down on a stray cushion. Agron turns with a smirk, adjusting the cloth around his waist. 

“Yes,” Agron raises an eyebrow, “Uninterrupted by fuck of a brother.”

“You cannot be angry at me for that. He was on fire. I didn’t know what to do,” Duro defends, raising his hands. 

“So you thought to wake him from pleasured dream?” Agron elaborates, “and rip him from my arms?”

“You had only been gone a day.” Duro reasons lightly. “I didn’t think it would be a problem.”

Agron nods slowly, seeming to chew over the words in his mouth before he turns back sharply and punches Duro hard in the arm. The younger scrambles to his feet, trying to get his own jab in, but is easily caught in a headlock, Agron digging his knuckles into the top of his head. Duro shouts in protest, digging his elbow into his brother’s ribs. 

“You fuck! You’ll wake your husband!” Duro growls, trying to wiggle away. 

“I am already awake.”

Nasir is sitting up, leaning heavily on one hand as he holds the blankets to his chest. He has a drowsy look about him, eyelids heavy and hair curling against his shoulders, rubbing a hand along the corner of his eye. Agron instantly moves towards him, releasing Duro to kiss Nasir’s forehead gently. 

“How are you?” Agron asks, perching on the bed next to him. 

“I am okay,” Nasir nuzzles into Agron’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around his waist, “Why were you beating your brother up? The sun hasn’t even fully risen yet.”

“Vengeance for waking you from most fulfilling dream,” Agron murmurs, kissing Nasir’s shoulder wetly, “and ripping you from my arms at highest pleasure.”

“Something you made up for last night and early into the morning.” Nasir whispers his reply against Agron’s mouth, getting lost in the taste of him after. 

Duro eyes the pair making out within the confines of their bed, Agron’s fingers getting lost inside the furs as he pulls Nasir closer. He will not stand idle though, not with his skull aching the way it does from Agron’s harsh hands. Instead, Duro strides up to the bed and pushes his way between them, sprawling out over Nasir’s legs and using his elbow to keep Agron back – ignoring their protests. 

“As much as I’m loving this happy reunion, did Nasir tell you about his little adventure in the woods?” Duro asks, sly grin when Nasir groans, hiding his face. 

“No. We really don’t need to discuss this.”

“Oh but we do.” Duro tugs a strand of Nasir’s hair, “Tell him.”

“Tell me what?” Agron looks confused and a little grumpily between the pair.

“This is fucking ridiculous. I’m going back to sleep.” Nasir tries to tug the blankets out from under Duro only for the prince to push back, making the feat impossible. 

“Nasir ran down, killed, and then ate a wild boar raw.”

“What?” Agron’s eyes widen comically, reaching towards Nasir before tapping his fingertips against Nasir’s lips. “You don’t eat meat.”

“He didn’t just eat it. He ripped its throat out and lapped the blood off his fingers. I saw him grow fangs,” Duro teases more, turning his head to watch the blush spread across Nasir’s cheek. 

“The baby needs meat. I cannot shake the craving,” Nasir mutters, pulling back from both brothers. He cannot yank the blankets free, feeling oddly exposed under the admission, so instead reaches for Agron’s stray tunic, pulling the soft fabric down over his head. 

“And you did not think to provide him with such, you simple fuck?” Agron swats Duro’s cheek sharply. “What were you doing while I was away?”

“How was I supposed to know he needed meat? He literally was walking with me in the woods, chatting about the fucking weather, and the next minute he was growing fangs and scales and running off!” Duro defends, rolling off the pair to defend himself. 

“Nasir,” Agron ignores his brother temporarily for drawing close to his husband, “Do not be ashamed. Do you need meat?”

“The baby craves it,” Nasir replies sadly, linking his fingers through Agron’s, “but I have not had much opportunity to obtain such. I cannot leave tent unless shackle is in place, and guards do not let me into woods. I have moved between here, medico’s tent, and royal tents – that is all. Part of my punishment for catching tent on fire.”

“You are not a prisoner any longer, my love,” Agron does not growl the words, but his lips do curl, “This is your kingdom too, and what you need will be provided. And my father’s reign of terror will soon be coming to a close.”

He stands abruptly, reaching down to gather up random cloth, tugging it on. Nasir stays silent, watching him dress with confused eyes. It’s like a dream, waking to have Agron here, Agron fixing everything, Agron and all the calm and storm. Nasir isn’t sure when he will wake, but if his husband continues to breathe, to kiss him like he will drink him down, and to press pleasure into every inch of Nasir’s skin – he hopes he never will wake. 

“Duro and I will go hunt and return shortly with fresh supply. Rest some more and then dress. I fear we will be dragged from tent after all.” 

Agron kisses Nasir slow, opens his mouth, and laps the taste from Nasir’s tongue. They have not had enough time together, alone without cloth or distraction, but Agron has every intention of rectifying that upon his return. 

“Hurry back.” Nasir pants against Agron’s lips, earning a grin in reply. 

He turns then, dragging a protesting Duro from the tent and into the waking dawn. 

Nasir takes his time to get up, greeted halfway through filling the tub by a sleepy eyed but grinning Pietros. They share soft words, hugging each other out of relief and exhaustion. Nasir does not comment about the bruises on Pietros’ hips nor the two different sized teeth marks on his chest. Pietros, in turn, does not comment on the heart shaped bruise sucked into the side of Nasir’s heavy stomach nor the way his legs tremble when he stands from the bath. 

Nasir is halfway through dressing, low slung crimson pants hanging loose around his ankles, with Pietros behind him, helping to braid his hair, when the door opens to the tent and Castus strides in. He looks well rested, wrapped snuggly in robes of teal and sand, a grin on his face. 

“Majesty.” He kneels, bowing his head, and Nasir startles, a sudden sense of modesty over taking him. It feels strange to be half naked before him, like he’s supposed to be hiding his stomach from sight. Nasir does not linger on it though, considering that the baby does not react – seeming calmed for now. 

“Castus. What brings you to my tent?” Nasir asks if not a little clipped. Agron has not met the pirate yet, and perhaps a proper introduction would be wiser than a surprise one?

“I know your husband has returned, but I am still required to guard you by the king.” Castus grins a little, “A task that I take great pleasure in.”

“Agron and I both have bodyguards that have returned. I will not be needing your services,” Nasir waves a hand, murmuring his thanks to Pietros when he finishes his hair. 

“Ah, Agron,” Castus nods, fitting his hands behind his back as he moves forward, “You told me of him, but left out his anger and viciousness.”

“He is a prince wolf – an heir apparent. Did you think he wouldn’t know how to bare his teeth?” Nasir laughs, reaching for his tunic – loose and thicker fabric, something to hide his body away. 

“From the bruises on your body, I would say that he knows too well,” Castus mutters, helping Nasir slip the fabric over his shoulders, smoothing down the collar. 

“You sound jealous,” Nasir teases lightly, turning his head over his shoulder to grin at Castus, “Did you not find someone to warm your bed last night?”

Nasir moves away from him then, pulling a sash from a box in the corner. It has been difficult these past few days to hide the curve of his body. Using magic is unstable and draining, and Nasir has grown tired of hiding away. He wants to be able to wear his clothes again, to dress with fabrics that are airy and light – fighting the heat of the last few days of summer. 

“I am only concerned on whether your beloved prince is worthy of you,” Castus moves to follow Nasir, but pauses, opening his arms as if he is trying for placating. “You speak of him as if he’s some divine being, brought down from the heavens for you. He is a simple fucking man.”

“Have you ever been made love to by a man, Castus?” Nasir turns dark and stormy eyes to his companion, ignoring Pietros’ soft murmur of “Oh shit.”

“What do you mean? Have I laid with a man before? Of course.” Castus rolls his eyes, not amused by the prince’s sudden change in tone. 

“No, that is not what I asked.” Fabric slips from Nasir’s hands as he moves towards the pirate, words soft. “Have you ever had a man strip you of all covering? Laid you upon back as if you are revered sacrifice? Body over you as if a titan, thick and strong, pressing you down and holding you such - not violent but with command. You are unable to think of anything but that tan skin, the brush of stubble upon neck when he kisses you to feel pulse stutter under his mouth.”

He does not slow even though Castus shifts uncomfortably. The remembrance of such nights fuels him on, and Nasir can almost taste Agron in his mouth, on his skin. 

“Have you ever had a man, a beast in all sense of the word, turn claws into soft hands? Caress you in ways that you were not even sure possible? Touch your chest and stomach, part your legs until you are not sure why you ever thought to close them. Why you were ever doing anything but lying naked and prone for him, surrendering completely.”

Nasir has drawn close enough that he can breathe the words against Castus’ skin as he circles around him. 

“Hands that have killed men. Have ripped the throats of monsters clean from their body. Blood pouring, staining him everywhere. A killer stroking gently the most secret places inside of you, coaxing you to highest peak and keeping you suspended - allowing you to feel the earth and the sky shifting above you in absolute and suffocating bliss.”

Castus watches Nasir’s eyes grow bigger, his mouth full and red from biting at his lips. He is lovely, so painfully lovely, and yet Castus cannot think to do anything but listen to the words pouring out of him. Nasir says them like a prayer, like a whisper to the gods themselves. 

“Kissed you with a mouth still bitter from your own taste, lapping all he can from you. He press of his cock so deeply inside of you that you have forgotten all. Were you ever separate people to begin with? How could you have been so empty before and now so full?”

Nasir presses his fingertips to his lips, almost as if he can feel the phantom press of his husband. Behind him, Pietros shifts on the bed, flush covering his cheeks and neck. 

“And when it is too much,” Nasir whispers directly into Castus’ ear, “when you scream and beg and he has broken you down and released you from all bonds, then he pulls it from you. The single strand left - composure and control - and you realize you never had it to begin with. He unlocks every lock, every promise to yourself. You come undone for him, and why wouldn’t you?”

Nasir smirks lightly, a barely there twinge of his lips. “There he finds you, fills you up, breeds you and claims what you have already given so many times before. There is no separation, no fear anymore. It is just the two of you, enraptured, enslaved in a freedom of each other.” 

Castus swallows thickly, turning his head to meet the prince’s eyes. Nasir’s eyes are flickering with glimmers of gold, skin warm where he’s pressed to Castus’ side. He wants to reach out, touch the side of his face, pull him closer, but that look is not for him. This boy is not for him.

“That is why,” Nasir smiles slowly, “I will always come when he calls, always wait, always fight, always burn for him and only him. There is no other option. We are for each other.”

“You are full of his child and bear his ring,” Castus mutters tightly, “a thing not so easily forgotten.”

“And with every kick, it grows stronger.” Nasir replies, smoothing a hand over his stomach, tunic falling open to accommodate the touch. He can feel the flutters against his touch, child growing stronger, larger every moment it seems. 

“Then I am overjoyed at my prince being happy,” Castus grin shifts, warms as if they had not just been discussing dangerous things, as if Castus wasn’t constantly toeing the line. As if he longs for nothing else than to smother Nasir’s mouth with his own. 

“I am.”

“May I?” Castus holds his hand out, doesn’t push, but asks innocently enough. He would feel the baby, now that it is bigger, to pretend for a moment he is the cause of the swell. 

Nasir is taken back by the request, but does not see problem. The baby seems to not mind people touching Nasir at the moment - not even reacting when Pietros had helped him from bath or when Duro had been sprawled across him earlier. If it sooths Castus’ intentions, reassures him that Nasir has no intention of leaving Agron, then he will.

“Sure.” 

Nasir places his hand over Castus’, guides it down to the side of his stomach where the baby is kicking. The instant the pirate’s skin touches Nasir though, the fluttering stops, but there are no snarling wolves or flashing images of Agron. It is silent, still. It doesn’t surprise Nasir, the lack of activity, having noticed that the babe only really reacts when his father is near or Nasir is overly emotional. 

“I pray it is as lovely as its father.” Castus smiles slowly up at Nasir, caressing the skin in small circles, “and as bright.”

“Thank you.”

Nasir cannot help blush that stretches across his cheeks from words. It is effect of desire being so openly expressed. Nasir is not used to men looking at him like that, at least not as close as Castus now stands – nearly sharing the same air as him. Nasir knows it is all a lie, a ploy, but Nasir has felt so insecure over his body lately that one compliment can send sense high. 

“What fucking shit is this?” A voice booms from the doorway, and Castus startles, pulling back to stand before Nasir – a defensive move out of instinct. 

Agron tosses the deer he was carrying over his shoulders onto the ground, teeth growing long instantly, eyes a flame. 

“Do not come closer!” Castus tries to command, stretching a hand out towards Agron, thinking to keep the beast at bay. He does not see a defensive husband, but instead, 

A wolf paces inside of Agron, thrumming to get out, and it’s through his eyes that Agron takes in the situation. A stranger standing between him and his own – his husband and child. The stranger has been all over Nasir, Agron can smell the scent of him – sea salt and spices – clinging to Nasir’s skin. And when Castus presses a hand back to Nasir’s stomach, Agron doesn’t think. There is no Agron. He lets the wolf take over, shifting into full form with a monstrous growl.


End file.
